


Open Your Heart (I'm Coming Home)

by nightmaresinwintah



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ??????, Amputation, Blood, Bucky is slightly more mentally stable than everyone thought he'd be, But also, Detailed murder, Graphic Violence, Homicidal Thoughts, Hugs, I IGNORED AOU, Internalized Homophobia, LOOOOOOVE, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Illness, Mentions of Suicide, OKAY SO THIS LOOKS BAD, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve it's okay to ask for help mate, Suicidal Thoughts, THEY LOVE, There is love, Weaponry, a road to recovery, attempted suicide, idk - Freeform, injuries, it/its pronouns for a little bit!, memory recovery, mentions of eating disorders (only very briefly, mentions of torture, minor (very) character death, not in detail), oh and I started before CW so CW (kind of) didn't happen in this, past trauma, self-destructive behaviour, suicidal behaviour, vaguely graphic torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:39:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 70,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes doesn't go through the change from the asset to James to Bucky again step by step. It happens, though. He saves Captain America and doesn't know why. He goes to Captain America when he's hurt and near death, and he thinks he knows why. He leans on Steve, and lets Steve lean on him while they both heal (together), and he definitely knows why. </p><p>Steve Rogers lives in denial. He's not depressed. He didn't <i>really<i></i></i> try to kill himself on the Valkyrie. He's not suffering from PTSD. He's not in love with his best friend - the one who is also known as the Winter Soldier. He's not any of these. (He's all of them.) </p><p>  <i>Or; Bucky and Steve learn to be Bucky and Steve again, not the Winter Solider and Captain America. (They do it together.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this took me so long. I'm so proud I managed this? BUT LISTEN NOT WITHOUT A FEW AMAZING PEOPLE THAT HELPED ME. My AMAZING betas; [Ivan](http://comrade-barnes.tumblr.com) and [Eline!](http://freezingbucky.tumblr.com) Listen thank you both so much! I couldn't have done it without you! This fic has been an adventure and a challenge, and I'm so happy I decided to join up for the SBB. So, thank you to Ivan and Eline! To you, the reader, I hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> As this is apart of the SBB, two WONDERFUL artists have created some amazing pieces of art. This one is by Xedotic on tumblr and I love is so so much! [Link.](http://xedotic.tumblr.com/post/148982473152/one-piece-for-the-stucky-big-bang-2016-this-is) There is another link to another piece that will be added as soon as it's been finished :)
> 
> (Also, the title is from [Hey You by Pink Floyd.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFjmvfRvjTc) Listen to it, please, it's Stucky. The song is about Stucky and I'm crying.)

“Sir, he’s highly unstable, I don’t recommend - “  


“Open the door. Now.” The words cut like ice, bland but sharper and colder than any blade.

“Sir, if you would just wait for the emergency team - “

“I said  _ now. _ ” Colder. Harder.

The door slides open.

The room is a wreck, like a storm ripped through it. And, well. Something similar did. The man is backed into a corner, the one that the security camera is mounted on. His back pressed as close to the wall as he can get it, his arms at his sides but tensed, ready. His eyes. God, his  _ eyes.  _ This one will be almost impossible to tame, Karpov knows. Almost. Something  _ feral,  _ wild and unruly, like a savage  _ beast,  _ stands defiant in those eyes. The man’s lips are bared in a snarl, and his fingers curl and uncurl from their fists. Three men lay dead around the room, killed in various ways. The man’s chest is heaving, like he can’t draw in enough breath, and he’s shaking. He doesn’t speak. His left arm makes a whirring sound. When they’re done with him, this man will be the perfect, unstoppable weapon.

A smile pulls at the corner of Karpov’s lips. 

“At ease, soldier.” His voice is void of emotion, but is laced with an undercurrent of promised violence. 

“What did you  _ do,”  _ chokes it’s way out of the man’s mouth, and he doesn’t dare look down to where the metal of his left arm is glinting in the fluorescent lights that hang from the ceiling. 

“I saved your life,” Karpov says, waving the topic away. “Not that that matters. What matters is what we’re  _ going  _ to do. Or, rather. What  _ you’re  _ going to do.” The smile flashes again.  

A perfect vision of undiluted fear crashes across the man’s face, before the door slides open again and single shot is fired. A dart full of tranquilizer is emptied into the man’s bloodstream.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the Howling Commandos and the 107th crumbles to his knees and goes under. 


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end notes

_ He’s falling, ice and rain drops ripping through the air around him, and his limbs are flailing. His hands, still outstretched, are reaching for the man still on the train speeding away from him. He’s still falling. He thinks he’s screaming. He’s got to be screaming, right? And, oh. He’s definitely screaming. And then he’s not. Suddenly he’s not anything at all.  _

The asset is sitting ramrod straight, shoulders squared and core tight. It looks around itself, assessing the terrain. It’s in an empty car park, concrete and filth, behind some bins, and it had been resting. Its eyebrows pull together in a frown, before smoothing out into a bland mask of indifference. Its eyes drop to its left side, and it clenches the metal fist that is raised slightly, ready for anything. Then it looks to its right, and its flesh hand reaches for the backpack that lays beside it. It takes out a well-used notebook. It flips it open, finding the most recent blank space, eyes barely grazing over the countless other words scratched onto the pages - some in English, some not. It clicks a pen. 

_ He fell from a train. He reached for someone who couldn’t catch him. He screamed until there was nothing.   _

It stares at the shaky words for a small while longer, then closes the book and unclicks the pen, replacing both back into the bag before zipping it back up. The asset’s stomach growls. The body needs food. The asset takes the backpack and stands up, tugging on its cap and gloves. It walks forwards, out of the underground car park. 

It sticks to alleys and back roads and rooftops, moving with the agile grace it was trained in, and lets its eyes graze over the food stores and carts. It ends up at the back entrance of a restaurant, the dark hoodie allowing it to blend in with the shadows, like it  _ is  _ a shadow. It watches the door through a curtain of dark hair, aware of every little movement and sound around it: there’s a rat digging through the scraps in the bins, there’s two people shouting at each other three stories up, there’s a cat sitting on a fire escape and a man smoking a cigarette hanging out his window on the top floor. Nothing is a threat. Especially not to the asset. 

The door opens. 

The asset doesn’t move, but the man - a short Asian man with kind eyes and round cheeks - looks around the alley before stepping out slowly and placing a sandwich wrapped in gladwrap on the ground half a meter from the door. The asset watches with sharp eyes as the man looks around once more before stepping back and closing the door. Only then does the asset move, slipping out of its blanket of shadows and picking up the sandwich. It puts it in the bag, and moves on. 

It’s been in this area for three weeks now, and that’s too long. 

The asset first came to this alley, it had been delirious from dehydration and starvation. It had slipped into the shadows and sat, leaning against the wall and pressing the side of its face to the cool brick. It had been waiting to finally die. 

_ Head spinning. Skin overheated. Body becoming hot then fading to cold. Unfocused sight. Recalibration required.  _

_ “Sir? Sir, I need you to open your eyes.”  _

_ Undetected presence. Defense required. Unable to stand. Recalibration required.  _

_ “Sir, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”  _

_ Insufficient knowledge. Recalibration required.  _

_ “Fuck, you’re burning up. I’m gonna get some water, okay? Don’t fucking die.”  _

_ Presence leaving. Time to go. Is the decommissioning of the presence required? Insufficient knowledge. Recalibration required.  _

_ A cold hand on its forehead. The asset’s left arm flies up and grabs at the pressure, but it can’t put any force behind it. The arm falls back down. “I need you to drink this, c’mon.” Has its handlers found it? It tries to follow the command. It opens its mouth, fumbles for whatever it’s supposed to drink. Something is pressed into its hand. It drinks. It waits. Its head clears a bit. Its ears are ringing. Is there a threat? _

_ It stares at the man in front of it. Not a threat. Easily taken down. Necessary to take down? Insufficient knowledge. Recalibration -  _

_ “Are you alright?” The man is speaking.  _

_ The asset frowns. The man raises his hand, and the asset is already moving to grip the knife hidden under the hoodie it is wearing, but then the man is holding something out to the asset. The asset frowns.  _

_ “It’s a sandwich. Take it.”  _

_ The asset takes it.  _

_ “I’m going to drive you to the hospital, okay? Try eat something. Stay here.” The man stands, and the asset doesn’t move until the man disappears through the door across the alleyway.  _

_ The asset stands as soon as the man is gone, and disappears, taking the water and sandwich with it. It understands now. The body needs food and water to remain functioning. As soon as it finds itself in an abandoned warehouse, it wars with the instinct to check the perimeter and every inch of the building for threats. It finds itself incapable. Weak.  _ Unacceptable.

_ It manages to sit where it can’t be seen even if someone came looking, and takes out the sandwich. It eats half of it. It writes in the notebook that the body is required to consume food and water to function. Possibly every day to remain in full functioning capability. It settles down to rest, before a wave of nausea rolls through it. The asset knows this feeling. It scrambles to its knees and moves away from its resting spot and throws the sandwich up. It scowls at the vomit. It will try again tomorrow.  _

The asset had required the man’s help, but now it knows it can hold food down without throwing it up. Every time, at least. It is time to move on. It can acquire its own food along the way. 

The weapon moves like a river, steady and fluid, and keeps going. Only, unlike rivers - and weapons, for that matter - it doesn’t have a certain destination.  

*

_ The weapon is heavy in the right hand. Weightless in the left. It shifts the fingers, testing the balance, before it settles down onto the stomach and peers through the scope. It’s staring at a road. It’s waiting for a certain car. The muzzle is digging into the skin. The sensation only registers for a second before anything but the mission is left branded into the brain. The car comes. The asset shoots.  _

_ Red splatters onto the cracked windshield, bright and disconcerting. _

_ The driver is dead. The car swerves. Rolls. The asset stands. It reloads. It doesn’t walk down the bank. It watches. No one gets out of the car. The fuel leaks out onto the road. The asset puts the weapon down. It takes up another one. It shoots. The car goes up in flames. Mission success.  _

The asset sits bolt upright, and reaches for the bag immediately. It writes down the dream. Memory? It puts the book and pen back and zips up the bag. It stands, and looks around. It’s at an old boathouse, and the body aches from sleeping on the old wooden floor. The asset frowns. That’s new. It shakes away the acknowledgement of discomfort and walks. 

  
It walks for a long time, walks until the body doesn’t want to anymore. Then it sleeps. The asset feeds the body when it can, and waters it when it can. It walks more. Sometimes it has to run. The asset hasn’t killed, though. Not since the helicarriers. 

_ The last mission.  _

Something stabs at the forefront of the asset’s mind, and it quickly dismisses all thought, reverting back to perfectly blank state of mind. It’s at the edge of the city now, and it hasn’t eaten in two days. Hasn’t drunk anything since yesterday. It’s avoiding the roads, but still following them. It discovered where it was going a week ago. For some reason it hasn’t turned around. It thinks it’s because there is no other mission. 

_ This isn’t a mission.  _

It shoves the thought away as quick as it came. It keeps walking. 

*

_ “Hey, Buck, y’ever wonder why we ended up here?”  _

_ Bucky can feel his forehead crinkle in response to the confusion he feels. He twists his head and levels Steve with a look, sarcasm plain on his face. “All the time, Stevie,” he grunts, and goes back to his book. _

_ Steve kicks at his shoulder with his foot in retaliation. He’s stretched out on the couch and Bucky’s on the floor by his feet. “No, m’serious, asshole. Why, of all places, are we in this exact flat in Brooklyn? In the  _ world.”  _ When Bucky looks up again, Steve’s got that far away look in his eyes that he gets when he thinks of places he hasn’t been to.  _

_ “Must’ve done somethin’ wrong to get locked up here with a punk like you,” Bucky snickers, and leans away to avoid the kick Steve half-heartedly sends his way as soon as he’s finished his sentence. Bucky immediately regrets the comment. “Nah, m’kidding. Don’t get riled up,” he tries, but silence drops over them when Steve doesn’t reply right away. Bucky watches the frown spread over Steve’s face, but Steve stays silent. Bucky’s eyes drop back to his book, but he’s not focusing on the words. _

_ Steve hums suddenly, making Bucky look back up, one eyebrow raised. “You’re probably right, Buck,” he drawls, nonchalant, and Bucky scrunches his nose up, heart thudding in his chest at the withdrawn look on Steve’s face.  _

_ “We’re our own people, Stevie. I chose this, no one gave it to me,” he says, giving Steve a sharp look. Something soft reluctantly shines in Steve’s eyes, behind all the surety that he’s nothing but a dead weight. It’s clear that he doesn’t believe Bucky in the slightest, and he’s got this sad, pitying look on his face, like he feels sorry for Bucky because he’s still  _ trying _. Bucky’s heart thumps up to his throat, and fuck, he wants to kiss Steve as much as he wants to throttle him. He wants to kiss away all the uncertainty Steve has, make him see that he’s worth the world to Bucky. Because...He is.  _

_ Instead, Bucky stands up, skin buzzing. Something wild leaps in Steve’s gaze, but Bucky just drops his book and runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. He turns away, and tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. He’s just sick, that’s all. “What d’ya want for dinner?” he asks, voice a little thin, a little higher than usual as he takes the few steps to the kitchen.  _

_ “Buck…” Steve’s standing up off the couch, putting his sketchbook down. Bucky can see the profile of his own face from here, and he pulls another hand through his hair.  _

_ “Pasta?” he asks, moving towards what they’ve got left.  _

_ When Steve doesn’t answer, Bucky turns and to look at him, face successfully schooled into a playful expression. But Steve’s just looking at the ground, arms wrapped around himself. Bucky’s face falls. He doesn’t say anything.   _

When the asset gets to Brooklyn, it lays low. Sticks to rooftops and alleys and back roads. It finds food, finds places to get water. It has nothing to do. No mission. No aim. It spends time walking around, even though it knows it shouldn’t be anywhere in public. It knows everyone is looking for it. The Winter Soldier. It knows everyone who knows of its existence wants it dead. 

Except. 

Except maybe one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone (not a character in the fic) gets shot through a windscreen - it's not detailed, but, y'know. Just in case. Also some very vague internalised homophobia.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in end notes

“Hey, Cap!” 

His fists are  _ flying,  _ hitting the punching bag with a force that would knock a man out with just one connection of fist to face. He registers the voice, but doesn’t stop. He’s got a good rhythm going, his head is clear, he’s not thinking about anything, he’s not thinking about - 

“Steve, you’ve been in here for four hours.”

He stops. He looks up, chest heaving, and grins. “Hey, Sam.” 

His friend raises an eyebrow, an unimpressed look painting his face. Steve grins wider, ignoring how unnatural it feels, and moves over to where his gym bag and water bottle is. He takes a long drink from the bottle as Sam walks over to him. “Were you on the punching bag the entire time?” 

Steve shrugs, grabbing a towel out and wiping at his face and neck before beginning to unwrap the protective cotton layer from around his fists. He looks up to meet Sam’s exasperated look that he can feel heavily on his face. “I didn’t know it was four hours. I wasn’t counting,” he protests.

Sam rolls his head to look at the four destroyed punching bags laying on the floor not far from where Steve had been punching the fifth one. Steve scrunches up his face and Sam sighs, clapping him on the back before blanching at the feel of the sweat soaking through the shirt Steve’s wearing. Steve bursts out laughing, and begins walking out of the Stark Tower gym, stepping into the elevator as Sam follows, wiping his hand on his pants with a disgusted look on his face. 

“You know you missed breakfast again, right?” Sam comments, watching the doors slide shut. 

“Jarvis, my floor, please,” Steve says, ignoring his friend. 

“Certainly, sir.” 

The elevator starts moving. Steve can feel Sam’s eyes on him, but he pointedly ignores that fact and simply tugs at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. When the elevator arrives at Steve’s floor, they both step out and Sam follows as Steve heads for the bathroom. “Steve, I’m not pushing you. I’m just. Worried.” 

Steve pauses as he straightens from where he’d been putting his gym bag down. “I know, Sam. I’m fine, though,” he says. 

“Right, right. Of course you are.” 

Steve can hear how weary Sam is getting with this whole back and forth. Steve looks up, and his face softens. “Sam, I can’t - “ Everytime they go through this, something breaks. Something gives. Steve doesn’t know how to do this. He’s Captain America, but he can’t even talk to his friend. 

Sam’s ever-patient eyes go all sad for a moment, before he sighs. “I’ll leave you to shower, man. Come up to the main floor and get something to eat after, all right?” He grins, and Steve slaps on a smile to reassure him. 

It doesn’t work. 

It never does, because Sam’s his best friend, and works at the VA. Sam just sighs and leaves, probably heading to the main floor to make some lunch. Steve stays still for a while longer, before turning the shower on and undressing. 

He steps in, the water already warmed up, and twists the handle to scalding. He stands under the water, feeling it burn his skin. He hangs his head, enjoying the feel of the steady stream drumming against his neck. He washes slowly - he’s never able to rush his showers, not since after the ice. When he’s clean, he struggles to make himself get out. Eventually, though, he shuts off the shower and steps out. He dries himself off and tucks the towel around his waist. 

He leaves the bathroom to walk to his room, and digs through his drawers to find something to wear. He’s not really focused, going through the motions while his mind drifts somewhere else. In his head,  _ he’s trudging through mud and undergrowth, pack heavy on his back and shield solid in his hand. His boots are hurting his feet - he doesn’t have any more dry socks and his feet hurt worse when he wears wet ones. He knows he’s in a better state than his team though, what with the serum and everything. He looks to his right, and Bucky glances at him and they share a small smile, and keep walking. _

“Captain, I thought I should alert you that everyone is waiting for you to begin eating upstairs. Should I let them know you’ll be a little while longer?” 

Jarvis’ voice shatters the memory, and Steve flinches, still not fully used to the AI. He draws in a shaky breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “No, no, I’ll be there. Thank you, Jarvis,” he replies, and moves to get dressed. 

*

Bruce and Clint are sat at the bench in the kitchen of the main floor, talking quietly. Natasha is standing, elbows on the bench and leaning over, flicking through a book. Sam is at the stove with a pan and spatula, and beside him is a big plate piled with what looks like sweet corn fritters. Clint looks up first when Steve walks in, giving him a smile that he returns. Bruce gives a little wave before the two resume their conversation. 

Steve takes a seat at the bench, and Natasha looks up, raising an eyebrow. She shuts her book and walks over, coming to stand beside him. “What are you doing tonight?” he asks.

“Uh, I don’t know?” Steve poses it like a question, because clearly he’s going to be doing something. 

“Good. We’re going out. You’ve been locked up in your room too much,” she states. Steve thinks she sounds satisfied with herself, but he can never be sure with her. 

Steve gives her a grimace. “I go out,” he protests. 

“No you don’t,” Sam pitches in, putting the plate of fritters on the bench in front of them. 

Steve frowns at him, and takes a fritter, stalling while he thinks of something to prove Sam wrong. Natasha beats him to talking, effectively shutting any argument down. “Going for runs doesn’t count,” she tells him, and grabs a few fritters before she’s drifting back around to the other side of the bench and opening her book again. 

“Does so,” Steve grumbles, and eats the fritter. 

They ignore him, and he silently counts it as a win, even though he knows it isn’t. He can fool himself to make himself feel better, alright? Steve eats a few more fritters before tuning into Clint and Bruce’s conversation. Or rather, he tries to. He can’t, not really. He can’t focus. He’s got something buzzing in his veins, like something really big is going to happen.

Tony walks in then, eyes slightly squinty like they get when he hasn’t slept in a few days. He’s got coffee and grease stains on his white shirt, and suit trousers on. It’s a strange combination, but then again, the other inhabitants of the upper levels of the Tower have seen worse. He comes to sit down heavily on the last free stool at the bench and narrows his eyes at the open curtains before turning his attention to Sam. 

“You know I pay professional chefs to be at our every beck and call, right?” he questions, voice haughty, but there’s no heat behind it.

Sam ignores him and slides the fritters closer to him. Tony takes one and nibbles at it, face slightly more content than it was a moment ago. Steve snickers quietly, the thrumming in his veins fading from his mind slightly. “Is there any coffee around here?” Tony pipes up again, and a rumble of groans goes around the friends gathered. 

“You know what would fix your tiredness?” Natasha doesn’t look up from her book, but the corners of her lips curl up into a half-smile. “Sleep,” she answers before anyone can speak. 

Tony squawks in protest, looking indignant, like the suggestion offends him. “Okay, but to do that, Spider, I’d have to stop working,” he shoots back, and she looks up, narrowing her eyes. 

“You’re not working now.” 

Steve takes another fritter, watching to back-and-forth with a smile. Tony holds up a finger and swallows a mouthful of fritter. The finger changes into a thumbs-up aimed at Sam, and then he replies to Natasha. “On the contrary. Jarvis, how far away are the downloads?” he questions the AI.

“Five minutes, sir,” comes the reply. “Though, if I may, I agree with Miss Romanoff, sir. You should get some sleep,” Jarvis adds, and Tony’s jaw drops. 

“Traitor.” A pause. “Science bro, Bruce, c’mon, back me up here,” Tony reaches around Clint, who side-eyes him warily, to poke at Bruce’s arm, and Bruce laughs. 

“You’re asking the doctor to back you up in saying you don’t need sleep when you’ve been awake for, what, two days?” Bruce replies, voice slightly incredulous. 

Tony rolls his eyes and grabs another fritter. “I feel personally attacked,” he grumbles around a mouthful of food. “Okay, but what about Cap?  _ He  _ hasn’t slept in two days.” He suddenly perks up with the knowledge that he can bring someone down with him. 

Steve grimaces, and sinks lower on his stool, shoulders falling forwards. He subconsciously folds in on himself as everyone turns their attention to him. “At least I’ve  _ tried,”  _ he mutters, and doesn’t look up from where he’s tearing a fritter into bite-sized pieces to see the pitying looks. 

He knows they don’t mean to pity him, and he’s telling the truth. He  _ does  _ try. It’s just that every time he drifts off slightly, he’s jolting upright in a cold sweat with a metallic taste in his throat and the image of ice all around him. He finishes the fritter. Eventually conversation picks back up, but Steve can’t find the energy to even try to  join in. He knows Tony eventually has enough of the ribbing from everyone, and stalks out of the room, grumbling about how at least his bed won’t tell him what to do. 

Steve’s mind drifts off again, and he’s back in early 1930’s Brooklyn, sitting on a rooftop and staring out over the river, Bucky warm beside him. In the present, he remembers the view perfectly, but his fingers are itching to get down the image of Bucky’s profile -  _ which is illuminated by the setting sun, his cheeks pulled back in a wide grin as he tells wild tales that are both enthralling and exciting. Bucky seems to know a lot of those stories - another thing Steve loves about his friend. It gets too cold eventually, and they have to go inside, because Steve’s nose is already pink, and he can’t afford to get a cold again. _ In the present, Steve’s eyes re-focus and he’s back, staring out the window. His skin feels cold. 

He can feel someone’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn around. He wonders if he  _ could  _ draw from the memory - he hasn’t drawn since before the ice. He nibbles on his bottom lip, then closes his eyes to block out the long-ago laughter echoing in his ears. When he does though, all he can see is metal fingers reaching out to him from where he’s sinking through the water. 

His eyes snap back open, and his stomach is tight; he feels sick. It feels like the water is closing back around him, ice locking him in place, and he  _ has to move. _ He’s on his feet in a second. Sam is watching him with concern in his eyes, and as Steve glances around the room, he sees that Bruce and Clint have quietly left. Natasha is watching them from her place beside the counter. She’s gotten through her book a bit, and Steve wonders how much time has passed. 

“Steve? Are you alright?” Sam’s voice brings Steve’s attention back to the man in front of him, and Steve’s eyebrows furrow.

“Yeah, man, fine. I was just thinking,” he says immediately, and wonders just how easily Sam can see through him when Sam raises an eyebrow like he’s calling bullshit.  

“If you’re sure,” Sam replies, and Steve thinks he wants to push the subject, get Steve to open up about it.

Steve just lifts his shoulders, like he’s trying to nonchalantly shrug the attention away, and Natasha shares a heavy look with Sam. She turns and leaves, taking her book with her, silent as a cat. Steve can feel Sam’s eyes on him as the desperate look on his face flickers behind his well-practiced, but still see-through, mask. Sam’s watching him, his face the picture of heartbreak, and Steve’s eyes unfocus. He takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking. His chest feels tight, like he’s going to explode. Sam tilts his head to one side, and his eyes bore into Steve. “You can tell me what’s wrong, you know?” 

Steve shifts, glancing back down at his feet. “Everything’s wrong,” he whispers, a crack forming in his careful walls. 

Sam just nods, eyes full of soft understanding and patience. Captain America slides out of the room. Steve breaks. His face morphs into one of pure anguish, and a deep sob rips itself from his chest, like a dam has broken inside of him. “I just...Fuck.” He scrapes a hand down his face, and crumples back down onto the stool. Sam moves to sit beside him, and Steve chokes out a sorry excuse for a chuckle. “I keep  _ remembering  _ things. I keep going back, and, just.” He doesn’t know how to explain it. “It’s like the present doesn’t exist. I was in the war two years ago but it was nearly seventy, and it’s like some things were yesterday. My brain keeps supplying me with all these memories that do nothing but  _ hurt,  _ and I can’t help but drift off and try stay in them a little longer.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. 

Sam just watches him, and the heartbroken expression is back. 

“When…” Steve stops, and rubs at his eyes, frustrated to see his hands come away wet. “When I first...Woke up, they told me how lucky I was to survive. I knew I should be thanking the people who found me, barely alive, but. Fuck. Sam. I didn’t want to thank them. I didn’t  _ want  _ to be woken up,” he chokes the last sentence out, and he sees Sam’s face fall, shock rippling through his eyes the confession. It feels like the air is choking Steve, and he wants to take it all back, shove it all back inside him and never let it out. He’s  _ terrified.  _ What is Sam thinking?

Steve falls into a heavy silence, and waits for a reply. He turns his face to look at Sam instead of his shaking hands, eyes open and pleading. This is harder than it should be. Sam swallows. “Steve. I think...You’re so, so strong. And everyone knows it, everyone expects you to be okay. You’re Captain America. But, you’re also Steve Rogers, and it’s okay not to be strong. It’s okay to not be okay. Fuck, Steve. I don’t know how you do it. But you’re running yourself into the ground here, and I think you should talk properly to someone with a little more qualifications than me, but if you don’t want to, then I’m happy to try help. _I’m your friend._ Steve. C’mon, man, look at me.” 

Steve looks up from where he’s let his gaze drift down again, and he blinks. Sam gives him a soft smile. “You’re gonna be alright. It gets better,” Sam murmurs, and Steve gives him a watery smile in return. 

“Thanks, man.” 

“Feels good, huh?” Sam grins, and Steve just nods quietly. 

Steve hesitates, unsure for a moment, but Sam just waits, tilting his head slightly. “Um. Can we, like.” Steve looks away, and grits his teeth. “Can I have a hug?” he says quietly. 

  
Sam fucking  _ breaks.  _ “Dude, of  _ course.  _ Come here,” he yanks Steve into a hug, and Steve wonders how the hell he got this lucky. Sam’s a gift from the heavens. Steve sniffles into the crook of Sam’s neck, where he’s tucked himself into, and relaxes bit by bit, and wonders if his mind will be kind enough to let him sleep tonight.  “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suicidal thoughts, a little dissociation, a little emotional breakdown


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D

The asset is standing at the lapping waves of a river. It’s staring down at the water, flesh hand gripping the right strap of the bag and the left hand clenched in a gloved fist. It stays there for longer than it should, watching the rippling surface.  

 _He crashes through the surface of the water, hyper aware of the falling debris smashing into the river around them. He holds fast to the unconscious body and hauls them both towards the bank. It’s difficult, especially since the man he’s helping - why, why is he doing this, this is wrong, this is not the mission, the mission is to_ kill _\- dislocated his flesh arm._

_ He’s not by any means gentle as he drops the man - Captain America, his mission - onto the muddy ground and stands over him, hair dripping in his eyes. The man sputters, water dribbling out of the side of his mouth. The asset takes a step to leave, to go - he has to go, his handlers are going to  _ destroy  _ him because of this. He doesn’t want to be wiped again.  _

_And, what?_ _He - it, it is nothing, it is a weapon, it does not feel, want, or think._ The asset does not want. _It presses the metal palm against the temple and forces down a full-body shudder as it recalibrates. Something tugs in its chest as it casts its gaze back to Captain America. The man isn’t awake, but he’s breathing. And he’d triggered something in the asset - the words he’d spoken had acted like a switch, clearing some sort of block in the mind. It feels - it doesn’t feel - unsettled._

_ The asset leaves. _

It knows the boots are leaving imprints in the mud as it walks away. It should be more careful, but it can’t bother to care, which isn’t new. What is new is the fact that it thinks about caring in the first place. 

The stomach is growling, and the asset feels dizzy again. It’s not sure when it last fed the body - it’s been spending long amounts of time sleeping in abandoned places. It hasn’t had time to find food or water. It decides it needs to try do this now. 

It has acquired new clothing - a baseball cap to help hide its face, a red shirt and a jacket. The jeans are new as well, but it has kept its boots. It has the ceramic and titanium knives constantly on the - its? No, that’s not quite right - body. The guns and favoured obsidian blade are kept in the backpack along with the pen and notebook. The asset has washed the body, too, recognizing that it was not normal to be constantly covered in dirt and dried blood, especially not in the city. It had found a stream of water in the abandoned building it’s been staying in most often, rainwater pouring down from off the roof. As it cleaned, more memories had come pouring in, and it found the skin raising in small bumps as it suddenly registered the cold. The asset had skimmed metal fingers over the bumps in confusion and almost wonder, watching more appear as the metal had come into contact with the flesh.

That was a new thing, too. The cold. It had not bothered it before, but now the cold pierced its skin every moment it could, deep down into its bones and unsettling it in a way it was not used to. It didn’t like it. The asset ignored it as much as it could, but it wasn’t able to fully disregard pain; but it was ever present, nagging and punishing it with every movement. Out of all the new things, this was the one it liked the least. It had settled into the left shoulder, the metal of the arm weighing that side down and tugging on muscle and bone, where it was fused to the flesh and bone body. Every step jolted it, and the skin around the metal was becoming even redder and rawer than usual. The asset knew the arm could be removed - but it had never been shown how. There had been no reason for it to know. 

It’s the pain that draws itself out of its thoughts now as someone brushes past it, the man’s shoulder making contact with the left one on the asset’s body. The asset makes no show of pain on the outside, but it still burns like hell. It doesn’t react - can’t draw attention - but the man spins around to level the asset with a glare that it feels on the back of its neck.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole,” the man spits.

The asset has no time for this, and keeps walking. This does not matter - never mattered for a second, but the man clearly thinks that this is some big problem. “I’m talking to you, you dirty beggar.” 

There are people watching now, and the asset can’t have this attention. It keeps walking, if not a little faster. It pulls the cap low over the face, veins thrumming with some unidentified emotion. It wants to turn around and beat the man into pulp with just its fists, but it can’t do that. Not here. It thinks it’s over, when it hears the unmistakable sound of someone coming after it. The asset tenses and lets its eyes take account of all the people watching, and all the cameras on buildings. It sighs, and then turns into the nearest alley. Fine, then. 

The man follows it, just like the asset knew he would. Checking the gloves are on tight, the asset stands in the alleyway and stares at the man as he turns the corner, a sneer twisting on his face. The man is tall - taller than the asset - but thinner and not nearly as powerful. The asset drags its eyes over the man and sets him with a solid 3/10 threat - and only because of the publicity he could bring, of which the asset wants none. 

“What’s your problem, asshole?” the man spits.

The asset widens its stance, lowers its chin and sets the man with a blank stare, eyes flickering dangerously. The asset doesn’t understand this. Is the man acting on orders? Surely they would have sent someone who stood a chance. Does the man have some sort of advantage the asset overlooked? Or is he simply that  _ stupid  _ and in dire need to prove something? When the man takes a step forwards, the asset shuts down all thought and tilts its head to one side. 

“You’re gonna regret - “

The man doesn’t finish. The asset lunges with a grace it’d thought it’d lost after breaking out of its programming. It takes the man by the throat, all pain in the left shoulder a dull ache as it is flooded with a rush of adrenaline. The asset is far stronger than this man, even in its weakened state. It holds the man in the air and frowns at him, staring up at the look of shock and fear flitting across the man’s face. The asset considers throwing him to the ground, beating him till he dies or maybe just ending it quickly with a snapped neck or a knife to the heart. Or slowly, a knife to the jugular, watching him choke on his own blood. Maybe it wouldn’t watch. Maybe it would leave, because it has no need to watch - this man is nothing to the asset. 

But, perhaps...Perhaps this man is something to someone, no matter how vile he is. 

The asset grinds its teeth together, warring with the initial instinct to end this man’s life - he doesn’t matter, he’s one in seven billion - and a second, new opinion mumbling quietly in it’s head - he’s possibly a whole world to someone, and there’s really no reason for him to die anyway. 

The asset drops him. 

The man clutches at his throat and gasps, choking in air. 

The asset leaves, but takes the man’s money - perhaps out of spite. It tells itself it’s because it needs to buy provisions. The asset has no need for spite.

*

It starts raining some two hours later, and the asset finds itself on The Bridge. It hears it with capitals in its mind because it is  _ The Bridge.  _ It’s standing there with its hair hanging in its eyes and collecting rain, dripping down its face. The rain is pattering down on it and the sidewalk, and there are cars going by. None of them slow. None of them stop. It’s soaked through, and its skin is shiny with water and it has to keep blinking to see what’s in front of it. 

There’s no evidence of the fight between the Winter Soldier and Captain America, but the asset can see it playing over and over in its head. Patchy in some places, after the wipe, but still...There. It swallows, and clenches its fist. It’s not sure when it started taking ownership of its body in its mind, but it’s not reverting back now. If no one had come forward to take ownership of its body, it will own it by itself. The cars keep moving, behind and below it, and it pulls its bottom lip between its teeth and sucks in a sharp breath. The air tastes like the rain, and with slow movements that hurt its joints, it moves on. 

It finds food - nearly nicks an apple from a stall before remembering it has money. It buys two apples, and puts one in the backpack. It eats the other one, deciding that yes, apples are good. It buys a sandwich, too, and a bottle of water, and eats half the sandwich, saving the rest for later. It decides to simply keep walking. It has nothing else to do. 

By the time it stops walking, it’s not sure where it is, but its body is cold and its arm fucking  _ hurts.  _ It’s been getting quick flashes of memory back for a while now, and it remembers pain killers. It doesn’t know if it even wants them, but it knows they’d help. It looks up, staring at the grey sky and the rain, and then looks around it. It’s still in the city, and it’s standing on grass. It doesn’t know exactly where it is, but with a quick scan of the place, it finds some form of shelter and moves towards the massive building. 

It stares up at the sculpture of a man in a chair, and frowns before stepping under the massive cover, glancing up at the ceiling for only a moment. It walks up the stairs and finds the place void of people, but sees CCTV cameras around. It keeps its cap low on its face, and moves on, back into the rain. It can’t stay here. 

Its boots crunch on the wet ground, and it’s not sure why it’s still here, wherever here is. The asset decides it’s slipping. It needs something to focus its mind on, something to -

There’s someone running towards it. Fast.

Without a second thought, the asset turns and breaks into a sprint. It pumps its arms fast and pulls its core in tight, moving its legs as fast as they’ll carry it. It ignores every pinch, ache, and jolt of pain and  _ runs.  _ Something heavy and twisting has settled in its gut, and it takes it a second to recognize that it’s fear _.  _ It can’t go back. It doesn’t  _ want  _ to. It won’t let them take it again. It’ll kill them all, if it has to. Or die trying. 

The person chasing it is shouting, their voice distorted by the distance and the rain, and the asset moves faster, lungs heaving. It hasn’t had to run for its life in a while, and though it’s more than physically fit, it’s in pain, and even though it’d gotten food, it’s still so exhausted. It pushes on. And continues to do so, until it’s weaving through buildings and making its way onto the rooftops. It leaps, jolts going through its body every time it nearly misses the jump or doesn’t make it. It can’t keep this up for much longer. Its pursuer is still behind it, closing in. 

And then it hears it. 

“ _ Bucky!”  _

It stops. Turns. Its pursuer leaps the gap between the buildings and skids to a stop, chest heaving, breaths coming in hot puffs of air. The man looks shocked, eyes wild with fear and something else the asset can’t discern. The asset shifts, before coming to stand completely still. 

“Captain America.” The asset’s voice is scratchy and croaky from disuse, but it doesn’t crack once. 

The man’s face falls a bit, but his eyes are still dancing with some emotion. The asset frowns. “Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve,” Captain America says in a rush, like they’ve got no time. 

“What do you want?” the asset asks, and even though it sees now that this was who it was looking for, it’s not sure if it’s happy that they’ve met when wasn’t on the asset’s terms. It’s not comfortable with this. 

Captain America - Steve? - takes a step forwards and the asset takes a quick step back, matching him. They stare at each other for another while, unsure what the other is going to do. Captain America speaks first. “Buck, I’m not here to hurt you,” he says.

The asset doesn’t want to trust that for a second. Except. It does. It trusts that this man is not going to hurt it if he doesn’t have to. And...The asset isn’t going to hurt him, either. He’s no longer its mission. The asset has no missions, not anymore. It is no longer...The asset. The weapon frowns. But it is also...Not the weapon? Panic rises in its throat, but it does not show any flicker of it on its face.

“Who is Buck,” it asks, remembering quickly that it’s said this before. “Bucky,” it adds, remembering that Captain America had referred to it as this as well. 

“You, it’s you, I - “ Captain America stops, and takes a short breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “Do you...Remember anything?” He looks like he’s got far too much to say. 

It is uncomfortable. It’s trying to focus on this conversation that is hurting its head, and also the fact that it doesn’t have a name, and this man is trying to give it one. Captain America is trying to get it to be Bucky Barnes again. “You are no longer my mission,” it says slowly, surely. Something clears on Captain America’s cloudy face, and it searches the change, still frowning. It’s not finished speaking. “I do not know who you are to me, Captain America, but you are familiar.” There. It’s said it. It doesn’t mention the displaced memories.

The man in front of it looks like he’s been given the best news of his life. It is so, so confused. “Look, I know this is probably extremely confusing, but. Do you have a place to stay?” the Captain asks. It scowls, and doesn’t reply. Captain America swallows, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Because, I...I don’t know. I want to help you, Buck.”

“Not Buck,” it spits, quick as a snake, and then recoils, taking another step back, on edge again, ready for anything. 

Captain America looks shocked, and puts his hands up. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry. What...Who are you, then?” He looks afraid of the answer. 

It stares at him. “I...I am the asset?” he says slowly, unsurely. It’s not. Not anymore. But it’s the only title it knows, apart from the Winter Soldier or the weapon, and it is neither of those any longer.

Apparently this is the wrong answer, and Captain America’s face falls. “No...B- “ he breaks off again, and looks frustrated. It doesn’t know who with. It remembers passing by a window in the city, seeing a poster of Captain America. It remembers walking through a museum three days ago. It remembers staring back at itself, and who it’s supposed to be. It remembers reading the name over and over in its head till it couldn’t see straight before moving on and shoving it all out of its head. 

“James,” it says, and it doesn’t sit right, but it settles some deep, roiling battle inside it. Inside James. James nods, and settles his eyes on the Captain’s, head suddenly clear with the confirmation that he is a person.

The rain has slowed to a slight drizzle. “James,” Captain America rasps out, and nods back. “Right. I’m - I’m Steve. And I’m not going to try kill you.” He swallows, and James’ eyes flicker to the movement again, before he narrows his eyes. “I’m just gonna offer you a place to stay, or at least clean up. And...So you know where I am, if you ever need to talk, or wanna know some stuff,” Captain America - Steve - finishes. 

James takes a step forwards, and then rocks back on his heels. “If I run, will you follow?” he asks, and he knows Steve knows that this is a test. 

Steve looks torn, but then he shakes his head. “No.” He sounds sick. “But I’ll hope you come back.” 

“I’m going to leave now,” James says, and moves backwards so his heels are touching the edge of the roof. 

Steve watches him, emotion welling in his eyes as he nods. “I’ll be waiting for you to show up again,” he states. 

James nods, then turns and disappears, head reeling. 

<>

Steve pulls out his phone the moment Bucky is gone, and dials Sam’s number. His friend picks up after the third ring, and answers with a sigh. “Yes?” 

Steve tries to laugh, but all that comes out is a choked sob. “Sam.” 

“Steve? What’s wrong?” Sam immediately sobers up, alert and sounding worried. 

“He’s okay Sam, he’s alive.” The words are laced with relief and sadness and everything in between. 

Sam knows exactly who his friend’s talking about. “Come over. This ain’t something to talk about over the phone. Where are you?” Steve can hear the hurried footsteps, and he knows Sam’s already up off the couch and pacing. 

Steve stares at the place Bucky disappeared. “On a roof somewhere. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he whispers, voice breaking as he starts off towards Sam’s place. 

They stay on the phone while Steve walks, finding out where he is and heading straight to Sam’s place. He takes a moment to be thankful that he came back to DC with Sam a few days ago instead of staying in New York. He gets to Sam’s apartment in twenty minutes, and his entire being is buzzing with restless energy. His skin feels too hot and is prickling with restlessness. Sam’s got the door open and his arms waiting and Steve just falls into them, already sobbing. They hang up the phones and Sam guides Steve through his apartment and settles them on the couch. Sam stays silent while Steve just  _ lets it all out  _ like he hasn’t been able to since the night Bucky died. And, god, if Steve thought that the other night was bad, this was like a roaring waterfall compared to a rapid in a river.  

At the thought, Steve shudders - his whole body shudders, the kind that feels like your soul is being ripped out - and looks up. Steve watches Sam searching his face, and wonders if he can see right through him. But then the thought disappears, taking the shaking and the hard, unforgiving anguish with it. Wonder seeps into his veins, pulling clarity along with it. 

“Sam, he’s alive,” Steve whispers, eyes wide and bottom lip shaking. 

Sam levels his friend with a careful stare, and seems to choose his words carefully. “Steve...I need you to remember that this isn’t  _ Bucky.  _ This is someone else.” 

Steve just looks at him, and chews on his lip. “I know. He asked me to call him James.” He hesitates before expanding on that. He recounts the conversation, and slowly re-gathers his composure at the same time. He tells Sam about Bucky choosing the name James, and then he lets out a bitter laugh. “He hated that name, said it was for his father. But. I guess he doesn’t remember that now.”

Sam doesn’t speak, until Steve looks up from where he’s dropped his head. “What happened after that, Steve?” Sam asks, and Steve tells him, the memory playing like a slideshow inside his head. 

Sam’s quiet for a little while, after, but his eyes are warm. Steve can tell he’s mulling everything over. “Steve, I think you handled that pretty well, considering,” Sam says carefully, and Steve’s eyes fill with shiny hope. 

“Really? I was sure I messed the whole thing up. God.” He lets his head fall into his hands, and Sam’s hand comes up to rub at his back. 

“You did good, man.” 

They fall silent for a while, afterwards, and Steve takes the time to gather his thoughts and calm the hell down. “Wanna put on a movie?” he asks eventually, and Sam cracks open one eye from where he’d let them drift shut. 

“I’ll choose. You suck at choosing movies. Go put popcorn on,” he replies, standing up and walking over to the DVD rack. 

  
Steve goes to the kitchen, still feeling sluggish, and puts the popcorn on. They end up watching Snow White. Although the animations are seriously something to look at, Steve finds his concentration drifting to the windows, and his mind ending up elsewhere. 


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the warnings in the end notes! This chapter gets a little...dark. Also the translations are there too.

 

The asset - James? James walks through the night. He does not stop to rest. He does not find food like he needs to. What he does find is an unignorable pain in his left shoulder. This frustrates him; he should be able to lock down any pain, ignore it, send it away. But this one stays - and grows. He chooses to deal with it by doing nothing about it. 

He walks until he sits down, finding an alleyway void of life. He takes out his notebook and jots down memories that came to him today, ones he doesn’t want to forget again. He doesn’t think he’s been forgetting the memories he’s gained, but how would he know? It scares him too much to think about it for too long.  _ He’s not allowed to be scared.  _

The thought flashes through his mind, and then he drops the notebook. He clutches at his head, an anguished scream nearly breaking through his gritted teeth. His brain feels like it’s on  _ fire.  _

_ The metal moves back from his head and he tries to get his breathing under control as he stops screaming. The plastic guard is taken out of his mouth. They started putting that in after he bit off the front of his tongue. He thinks it’s because he made a mess with all the blood.  _

_ “What do you feel?”  _

_ A voice to his right. He turns his head, neck twinging painfully and brain burning. He still can’t see - his vision is swimming with white and black. “Pain,” he croaks, and feels the back of a hand crack across his face. It barely registers over the burning in his brain.  _

_ “Again,” is sighed into the air.  _

_ The metal closes back around his head and the guard is put back in his mouth. He starts screaming again - he can’t fucking help it. When it stops he still can’t see, but he slumps in the chair and chokes back a sob. He stopped crying because they didn’t let him sleep for a week last time he did it.  _

_ “What do you feel?” comes from his right, for the fifth time.  _

_ He hesitates, caught up by the fact that he doesn’t actually know if this is the fifth time. Then he thinks about the question, and he finds that he definitely still feels pain. He pushes past it to answer, but then apparently he’s taken too long to answer because the metal is closing around his head again and the guard is back in his mouth. His vision clears enough for him to see a figure in front of the chair taking notes, then pressing a button. He’s lost to a world of pain, but hardly any sound comes out when he screams this time. His throat is too raw and his voice is barely there.  _

_ When it stops this time, he spits the guard out and chokes up blood.  _

_ “What do you feel?” is repeated.  _

_ “Nothing,” he manages to get out, even if it’s so quiet the man has to lean in to hear.  _

_ “Good.” A pause. “Again.” _

_ The metal closes around his head and he nearly lets out a whimper.  _

James fumbles for his notebook when his vision clears to write the memory down, but the book’s gone. He looks up, and is immediately on his feet, stance wide and hands clenched. Three men are in the alleyway with him, two staring at him and one has his notebook in his hands, flipping through it. The one with the notebook laughs, and points to something he apparently finds funny.

And, okay, well. James certainly does  _ not  _ find this funny. He had been vulnerable, stuck inside a flashback, and when he comes out of it these people have his  _ notebook.  _ It’s  _ his.  _ There’s also the daunting thought that they could have done anything while he was unaware. It makes his skin prickle uncomfortably. He feels violence bubbling under his flesh, and he has to hold himself back from leering at the men. 

“What the fuck? Listen to this. ‘Arm was removed. Metal saw. Buzzing. Lots of pain. Metal fused with flesh. Lots of pain. Remained awake? Metal Arm acquired. Five people in the room. Three die.’” The man with James’ notebook laughs again and looks at him incredulously. “Are you trying to write a book, crackhead?”

James feels pure, white hot rage, and observes the men. “Three die,” he echoes, and takes the glove off his flesh hand. He can feel it - the cold chill of the ice settling into his bones. Into his mind. He goes carefully blank. 

The men all look at him like he’s some kind of crazy, and the one with the notebook snickers. They’re all dressed in clean-cut clothes, the kind that costs hundreds - possibly thousands. They stand tall, have an air about them like they own the ground they walk on. James wonders what made them walk into this alleyway. Had he been screaming? Something burns in his stomach. 

“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?” the one with the notebook snaps, and the one to his left laughs, hands in his pockets and leaning back like this is absolutely hilarious. 

“Give the book to me,” James demands, but he finds himself hoping they don’t. 

“Not likely. This is fucking gold. I’m not done reading.” 

James takes off the glove on his metal hand, and rolls up his sleeves. He likes this part, when his marks realise that they are going to die. The one with the notebook has gone back to flicking through the pages, but the other two’s eyes widen. 

  
“Jack…” the one on the right practically squeaks, and James takes a step forwards, metal arm whirring as he raises it slightly, letting the light from the streetlamp at the end of the alleyway catch on it. 

The one with the notebook looks up, smirk on his face. It fades when his eyes flash down to James’ metal arm. James lowers his chin, and moves. The one on the left is on the ground, and his neck is snapped. A clean death. James decides it was too nice. The next one will die slower. 

“What the fuck?! Is...Fuck, is he dead? Look - h-have your fucking book back, man.” The one with James’ notebook is backtracking rapidly, holding out the book and walking backwards. He stammers his way through the whole speech, his face deadly pale, and he's crying. James nearly snarls. 

His book is dropped to the ground, and the two men left start to run, but then James is there in front of them, and storms forwards. They turn to run, and James grabs the one that was standing on the right. James grips both of the man’s wrists behind his back and plants one boot in between the man’s shoulder blades and  _ yanks. _ The man starts screaming. James isn’t worried. He takes his favourite knife - a ceramic one tucked into a sheath under his shirt - and jabs the blade into his jugular, quick and  _ messy. _ Blood hits the side of James’ neck, splatters at his jaw. The man stops screaming, and starts gurgling. James drops him. 

He stalks forwards, towards the man left cowering against the back wall of the alley. He tilts his head to one side, wipes the blade clean on the man’s shirt, then tucks it back into its sheath. He kind of feels like he should say something in reply to whatever pleas are spewing from the man’s mouth, but James suddenly feels tired. He just wants this over with. He deals a solid punch to the man’s middle with his metal arm, and the man doubles over, already choking up blood. Without missing a beat, James pulls his knee up fast to collide with the man’s face. 

The man falls to the ground, and James makes quick work of his death - a knife to the back of his head, severing the spinal cord where it exits the skull. Then James turns and walks to his notebook, picking it up and tucking it away in his backpack. He pauses, and frowns. “Don’t touch my  _ fucking _ book,” he spits at the bodies, before shouldering the backpack, taking to the roofs and getting as far away from the crime scene as possible. 

He feels that pinch of guilt crawling up his throat as he leaves, but he forces it back down. He acted without thinking, and consequences happened, and there is nothing to do now except run.  

*

When dawn comes, James is waiting in the shadows under an alcove and watching a certain door. It opens sometime around half an hour after the sun rises, and James presses back against the wall behind him, knowing he’s hidden but cautious anyway. Captain America - Steve - looks around before he walks out and turns left. He’s dressed in running gear, and James tails him silently. Like a ghost. 

_ Something slams into it, and the asset writhes and immediately takes control of the situation, twisting and maneuvering until its attacker is on the ground underneath it, the metal hand wrapped around his neck.  _

_   > Собака! _

_ The asset drops like a dead man, muscles going limp. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the ground, and the man growls and stands over it. “You are supposed to be a ghost, dog. On your feet.” The asset shudders out of the command that has been grinded and implanted into what’s left of its mind; one of the many orders that are for its handlers to subdue it when necessary. It stands with a flowing ease that has been forced into it through vigorous training.  _

_ “To the chair.”  _

_ The asset turns and walks out of the training wing and heads straight to the chair, any ounce of protest flying out of its mind the moment it appears, just like it was programmed to do. _

Like a ghost, Steve doesn’t know James is tailing him till they reach the park Steve runs in. They’re surrounded by trees, and there’s hardly anyone around. Making sure no inch of metal is showing, James walks forwards and comes to stand behind Steve. “Steve,” he says, annoyed that he has to announce his presence. Steve spins around, eyes wide and muscles tight, clearly ready for a fight. James just tilts his head to one side.

“Buck - James. Hi,” Steve breathes, and he sounds out of breath like he’s already been running for miles. 

James frowns. “I showed up.” He’s not exactly sure why, though. 

Steve nods, and his face seems void of any fear or anything other than happiness, actually. It confuses James. “I. Um. Did you sleep alright?” Steve asks, and then winces, and James gets the feeling that Steve feels like he’s tripping on his toes with everything he says. He seems to be trying to be careful with what he says, like he doesn’t know how to talk to James. 

“I didn’t sleep,” is all James says, and then watches as Steve’s face drops. For some reason, James’ stomach drops with it, but he doesn’t dare let it show. 

“Oh. Uh, well. You could always sleep at my place, if you wanted?” Steve tries, and James frowns deeper, almost scowling. 

“Why?” 

“Because you need to sleep. And...You don’t have anywhere to go, right? So. You could stay with me.” 

James watches Steve for a moment, not replying. He’s not too opposed to this idea. Steve clearly has access to water and food, and shelter. These are all things that James needs to survive. And he doesn’t find that Steve is a threat - he’s the only thing that isn’t, these days. Slowly, James gives a tiny nod. 

“Where is yours,” he asks, though his voice doesn’t make it sound like a question. 

Steve shuffles nervously, gaze dropping to the ground and then lifting back up to meet James’. “I, uh, I stay in the Stark Tower. With some of the Avengers, actually. Tony’s Tower?” 

James stares at him for a little while longer, taking this in. He knows of the Tower Steve speaks of. He knows the Avengers, too  - he had to study them before he went on his last mission. Had to know what he was up against. He’d forgotten, of course, after the mid-mission wipe, but the memory of the briefing has returned. He thinks of the Tower, thinks of how many people of there, and knows how much security will be in the building. Practically a prison.

“No,” he says, and takes a step back. Maybe Steve can’t help him. 

Steve steps with him, and James tenses. Steve’s eyes go wide and he takes a slow step back, putting his hands up like James is going to shoot him. James frowns. He is not going to shoot Steve. “Just. Consider it? The people who live there - no one’s going to harm you. We want to help, James,” Steve tries, then his eyes flicker down over James. “Is that blood?” he asks softly, eyes going a little wide and a crinkle appearing in between his eyebrows. 

James shakes his head to both questions, and turns to go. Steve jolts forwards, and James feels his hand clasp around his left shoulder, fingers digging right into where the swelling had gotten worse and the skin had started to get dark - almost a massive bruise, but under the skin. James can’t stop the wince and little gasp of pain before he’s ripping his shoulder out of Steve’s grasp. He goes to run, but then Steve’s talking again, quickly. 

“I'm heading back to New York, today. Please think about the offer,” he says.

James swallows, but doesn't reply. He doesn’t even look at Steve before he’s off like a bullet, racing away like he can’t face the look he knows Steve’s wearing. 

<>

Steve moves to run after Bucky, but stops himself at the last second. He drops the arm that had been reached out, and lets it hang limply by his side. He feels like he can’t breathe.  _ Jesus.  _ What the fuck even was that? He can’t stop playing the look of pain on Bucky’s face when he grabbed his shoulder. He’s very clearly hurting, and, what the fuck? He hasn’t been sleeping? And that was  _ definitely  _ blood on his shirt and pants. There was even some in his hair and on his neck. Steve sits down, hard, and stares at where Bucky disappeared. 

He sits there until he sees people starting to come into the park, and then he gets up. He starts running, and doesn’t stop until Sam comes and finds him. 

<>

Sam walks into the Tower with Steve beside him. They’d gone over the interaction with James on the drive here, and now Sam can see that Steve just wants to fall into bed. He looks exhausted. Steve's mentioned that with the serum, he doesn’t need more than six hours of sleep to be in top form. But the thing is, Sam knows that he sure as hell hasn’t been sleeping anywhere near that lately. He’s tired all the time, like James is draining him. He knows that’s not it - he’s draining himself worrying about James. Secretly, Sam also thinks that the six hours thing is complete bullshit and Steve should be getting more sleep than that. But that's something else to tackle entirely. 

“You gonna be alright, man?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah. M’just gonna get something to eat and head back to bed. Wake me if anything changes?” Steve says, like he’s actually gonna be able to sleep. They’re walking through the lobby and smiling at the security and people in there. Their gazes follow the two Avengers - usually they use a back entrance, but today Steve apparently just couldn’t be bothered walking that extra distance. 

They walk into the elevator and it starts up. “To your floor, Captain Rogers?” comes Jarvis’ voice. 

“Please, Jarvis,” Steve says tiredly, and leans on the wall he’s closest to. Sam sets him with a concerned look. 

“Yeah, I’ll wake you.” Sam pauses, and frowns at him, narrowing his eyes slightly. He knows that Steve already feels guilty for ‘unloading all his problems on Sam’, but he has a niggling feeling that they’ve only just scratched the surface. 

Steve looks at him and frowns. “I’m fine, Sam.” 

“I’m just concerned, man. You’re running yourself thin. Yeah, Bu - James is important, and clearly not okay, but. Dude. How’re you gonna help him if you’re agonizing over him so much you can’t even help yourself?” 

Steve just looks at him until the elevator stops and the doors slide open. They walk out, and Steve goes straight for his kitchen. “I don’t get what you mean,” he finally speaks. 

Sam rolls his eyes, pulling up a chair and sitting down, looking out the massive windows while Steve fixes them sandwiches. “Course you don’t. Look. You have a  _ lot  _ of things going on, alright? And you’re pushing them away, I can see that. You’re focusing on James. You’re forgetting the shit that’s going on inside your own head - it’s like you’ve got the mentality that once James is safe, everything will be okay again. But, man; it doesn’t work like that.”

Sam looks over and finds Steve with both hands on the bench, sandwich stuff in front of him. He’s staring down at the items but not seeing them, and, oh Jesus. He’s shaking, just slightly. He looks up, and his eyebrows draw together and he looks kind of desperate. “I know. I just - “ He stops, and sucks in a deep breath.  

Sam sees it the moment his friend tenses all over, knuckles going white from where he’s gripping at the bench, and he stands up and walks over, putting an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “C’mon man, you’ve gotta say when things aren’t alright,” he whispers, and Steve just looks at him. Sam can tell he’s trying to hold it all in, like he usually does. He’s struggling, trying to brush it off. But, what with James suddenly showing up, Sam can tell Steve’s usual coping mechanisms are a bit off kilter. Still, Steve pulls together the scraps of a mask, and Sam frowns at Steve’s shitty excuse of a smile.  

“I…” Steve stops, and takes a deep breath. Sam frowns harder. Steve swallows, and casts his eyes to the ground. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, and then starts again. “I’m not alright,” he admits in a low voice. 

“I know,” Sam murmurs, and guides the soldier over to the chair he was sitting in. Steve reluctantly sits down, and distractedly glares at the ground. He’s tucking the emotions back away, and Sam can see the whole thing. “I’m gonna fix us both some sandwiches, and then we’re gonna eat them, and then we’re gonna talk, okay?” he asks, because Steve clearly doesn’t want to talk yet. 

Steve just nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He pauses. “I’m not helpless though, alright? I can still do shit for myself.” He looks concerned, like now that he’s admitted he’s not okay, everyone’s going to treat him like he’s made of glass. Like the world’s going to fall apart. Like  _ he’s  _ going to fall apart. 

Sam just laughs and nods, and starts on the sandwiches. “I know, man.” 

*

The talk doesn’t happen, because Steve’s very good at avoiding, but they end up sitting on the couch with the empty plates on the coffee table in front of them. Steve’s talking about one of the times he and the Howling Commandos stormed a Hydra base, guns blazing. Sam’s laughing, enrapt in the story. Tony walks in without warning and raises an eyebrow. Steve halts, his arms still lifted from where he was gesticulating wildly. 

“Right. Well. I thought you’d like to know Clint’s back,” he says, face ever some form of amused.

Sam didn’t even know he’d left. Steve just looks at Tony. “And...Why didn’t you just ask Jarvis to tell us?” he sounds genuinely confused. 

Tony looks offended, but they all know it’s not real. “What, I couldn’t come and deliver a message all by myself?” he bites back, but there’s a grin on his face. 

Steve rolls his eyes and stands up off the couch. Sam follows, picking the plates up and walking to put them in the kitchen. The head to the elevator together, and when Steve leaves first to practically run over to Clint and say hi, Sam and Tony hang back and walk over to the group slowly. 

“You were checking up on him, weren’t you?” Sam asks quietly. 

Tony just shrugs.

<>

The next day, Steve wakes up with that familiar heaviness in his head that reminds him of a headache. He can’t get those anymore, though. He gets out of bed and heads straight to the shower. As he stands under the water, he plans out his day, since he has nothing planned by others. Last time he had something solid planned was Natasha taking him to a club and pointing at pretty girls (and some boys, too, he didn’t miss her sly grins) before taking him home and practically tucking him into bed and telling him it was his turn to make breakfast tomorrow. 

Today, though, he just wants to go back to DC and give Bucky the opportunity to come find him. But he’s needed  _ here.  _ So he grits his teeth and bares it, forever keeping an eye on the shadows.

  
Bucky doesn’t show up again for three days, though. And when he does, it’s not in a way that anyone would have expected. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings; flashback of electrocution themed torture that involves dehumanization, graphic description of civilian death (major character kills them). 
> 
> Собака - Russian for dog.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end notes. Translations are there too :)

James is on the roof of an abandoned building, and has been there for three days. He can’t seem to move much. He’s been drinking the water he managed to get, but he’s finished the food. He’s found that if he doesn’t move too much, the hunger pains don’t flare up. What  _ does _ hurt no matter what he does, is his shoulder. He’s removed his shirt and jacket, and he now glances at his left shoulder. It hasn’t changed too much, but it’s still a sight to look at. 

The skin is raw, bright red and riddled with patches of deep purples and greens and browns. His body isn’t even trying to heal it - it’s like it’s given up. It’s draining him. His skin is clammy and hot, and he can barely open his eyes when the sun’s up. He reaches for his water with his right hand and winces as each movement drips with pain. He takes the water bottle, and takes a drink. He goes for another one, but when he looks at the bottle, it’s empty. He swallows, and drops the bottle. It rolls somewhere. 

He looks out over the city. He can see the Tower from here. He closes his eyes, and drifts out of consciousness.   

*

The rain wakes him back up, and he has no estimate of the time he was out. He sits up tenderly from where he’d slumped down from the sitting position he’d stuck himself in. God. He’s  _ shivering,  _ and it fucking hurts his arm. His bare torso is actually stinging from the cold, and although it’s a nice change from the heat, he knows he doesn’t have much left in him. He tilts his head up and opens his mouth, taking at least one advantage from the rain. 

After a while, he gathers his things, slower than he’s ever been before - slower even than when he had been riddled with bullets. Fuck. Is he growing weak? He tugs on the red shirt, and manages to get a glove on the metal hand. He pulls himself onto his knees, then his feet, and starts walking. 

He makes it down from the roof on tingling legs and aching joints. Because of the rain, not many people are out, so he doesn’t have trouble as he walks - well, stumbles - down the street and towards his destination. He’s delirious at this point, dizzy from the pain and lack of food, aching more than he has been in a while. 

He gets there, though. His head is spinning and he barely makes it through the front doors. There’s security, and weapons, but no one stops him. Maybe they’re too shocked. He nearly falls to his knees, but pauses and takes a ragged breath before darting out his right arm to catch himself on the desk he’s in front of. 

“Steve,” he croaks, and the person behind the desk stares at him with wide eyes for a moment before moving towards a phone.

The elevator James apparently missed when he looked around the room dings open before the person can pick it up. James turns his head slightly to look at it, trying to ready himself for a fight, but Steve rushes out of the elevator, two people behind him, a lady and a man. High level threats, if the way they’re walking is any indication.

“Steve,” James’ voice cracks, and he collapses to the ground. “Stevie,” he practically croons.  _ Where the fuck did that come from? _

Steve’s face is twisted into a look of panic, and no, no, that’s not right. “Stevie.” James tries to tell him it’s alright. He reaches up his right arm to touch his face as Steve crouches beside him. 

 > моя любовь … James mumbles, and grins.

He’s not sure it comes out as a grin, maybe more of a grimace. The lady behind Steve blinks, and she looks confused and a little bit shocked before her face slips into a bland mask. Her hair looks like it’s on fire. James goes to tell her this, but then Steve picks him up, and James chokes out an almost animal noise of pain, and passes out. 

*

James can feel something...In his arm? No. His shoulder. He whines, high in his throat, as the pain registers, and then the whine twists into something feral and wild, turning into an all-out scream of terror and anguish. It  _ hurts,  _ it hurts so much and he doesn’t know what’s going on.  _ How did he get here? _ Then his mind gives him an answer, and it doesn’t quite sit right, but he takes it. His handlers have gotten him back. He’s being reprogrammed. 

He doesn’t want it. 

He twists, kicking - is that a sheet? - something off his legs and comes to stand from where he’s been laying on a table.  _ It’s too soft to be a table. _ He can’t see - everything’s swimming in a haze of pain - and he swings wildly with his right hand, because his left one’s not moving. What did they do? The fuzzy figures are backpedaling fast, moving out of his way, and he snarls at them, hair hanging in his face. Doors to his left swing open, and he moves, turning to face whoever’s coming to put him down. 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees all the blood. He freezes, going completely still. Then he lets his eyes drift a bit, and they land on the metal arm - his metal arm - that is on the table beside the one he was laying on. 

He falls to his knees, feeling the loss rip at his heart. He can’t fight anymore - the pain’s caught up to him, and as he looks at his left shoulder, all bruised and red and _ jesus fucking h christ _ there’s no arm  _ there, _ that’s just an open wound steadily dripping with blood and oh fuck is that his bone? He thinks he’s going to be sick. 

Hands move to grab at him, and he twists away, crying out at the pain it causes him. The hands stop. 

“Please don’t. Don’t put me in the chair.” He’s not beyond begging. Not in this state of mind. 

He looks up, and Steve’s staring down at him with horror on his face, and James slumps to the floor, embracing the blackness again with welcoming arms. 

<>

Steve falls with Bucky -  _ the way he always should have - _ crashing to his knees in a way that should hurt but doesn’t or doesn’t register. He catches Bucky’s head before it hits the floor, and holds him, staring around the room for help. Only one surgeon is snapping out of the shock and rushing forwards, eyes impossibly calm, like they’ve seen this sort of thing before.

“Fuck, help us!” Steve croaks, and that prompts the other surgeons after no one else moves. Steve can hear his own voice cracking with panic. Bucky’s still bleeding, and they’d been working on stopping that when Bucky had woken up. Apparently the anesthesia doesn’t work for long on Bucky, either.

As Steve gingerly picks Bucky up at the surgeon's request and puts him back on the bed, he forces himself to calm down. He watches, not letting himself be dragged out of the room this time, but stands back as the bleeding is stopped and the open shoulder is bandaged. As soon as the procedure is done, Steve walks along behind the team of nurses who wheel Bucky on the bed to a secure room, and then they leave them alone. 

Steve sits down heavily on the chair beside Bucky’s bed, and breathes out for what seems like the first time since Jarvis alerted him and the other Avengers that ‘Sergeant Barnes’ was in the building. It goes through his mind again, and he drops his head into his hands, shuddering out another breath. 

He’d been in the communal lounge with Tony and Sam, just talking and even  _ laughing,  _ when Jarvis had politely cut in and announced - in a somehow strained voice - that ‘Sergeant Barnes has just collapsed in the lobby.’ And right now, thinking back on it, Steve doesn’t remember the next few moments very clearly. It was fast, he knows that, getting into the elevator and finding Natasha and Clint already there. Panic had been gripping at his chest, rendering him breathless. He knows that much. He remembers, clearly, how small his lungs had felt. 

When the elevator doors had slid open again, down in the lobby, the panic had been joined with pure, undiluted  _ terror  _ that had gripped his heart and  _ squeezed.  _ Bucky had been in a crumpled heap on the floor, and security had been swarming towards him, hands on their guns. This had barely registered before he was crouching beside Bucky. He had been dimly aware of Natasha and Clint telling everyone to  _ “Back off, stand down.”  _

It’d felt like a bucket of cold water the moment Bucky had spoke.  _ “Steve. Stevie,”  _ and then something in Russian. Bucky going limp in Steve’s arms after making that  _ noise.  _ Steve’s ears are ringing as he remembers it. The rest was a storm of yelling and prep for surgery. He’s still not sure when the decision to remove the metal arm was made, but he can hear someone’s words echoing hollowly in his ears clear as day -  _ “It’s killing him.”  _

The door to James’ room opening pulls Steve out of his thoughts, and he looks up to find Natasha sliding in silently. She doesn’t seem to notice him for a moment, but he knows she knows he’s there. She watches James quietly, observing the rise and fall of his chest and the needle in his hand giving him the nutrients his body needs and keeping it hydrated - he’d been dehydrated and underfed, but not by so much that it was life-threatening at that moment. She lets her eyes drift to the mutilated stub of his shoulder last, eyes narrowing slightly. Even though the wound is covered in bandages, you can still see the scars and stitches weaving out from under them. 

“It’s not right, to see him like this,” she comments eventually, moving to stand against the wall beside Steve. 

Steve just shrugs, and stays silent. He knows this. It’s horrible sitting here and seeing James so broken. “He wouldn’t want our pity,” he says quietly. 

Natasha doesn’t reply, just stands there in companionable silence, before pushing off the wall and leaving without another word. Steve waits, knowing there are cameras in the room and guards outside the door in case something happens. He thinks he’ll be alright, somehow. They both will. 

<>

When James feels himself drift back into consciousness, he doesn’t move from where he’s laying on a bed. He keeps his breathing even, and lets everything sink in. He’s still in pain, but it’s dull - like he’s on painkillers. He’s not tied down in any way, but there’s someone to his right. He can hear their breathing. He tests the movement of his left arm subtly, and feels sick rise in his throat when he finds that it’s been disabled. Strangely, there's a strong scent of iodine in the air. Memories flood him, but they’re not old ones. 

They have him.

Not Hydra, he knows this now, remembers Steve’s face as he stared down at him with a hurricane of emotions on his face as James’ had  _ pleaded  _ not to be harmed again. James is so, so done pleading. He’s done with being someone’s pet, done with being so easily overwhelmed and overpowered by those who own him. Done with being emotionless, not taking control of his own life. Done with having things done to him without his consent, without his knowledge. He’ll kill the next person who tries something he doesn’t consent to, he really will. He’s only just gotten freedom back - just learned that freedom was even an option. Steely resolve settles into his bones. He won’t be under someone else’s control, not ever again. 

Then fear holds him paralysed as he realises - where’s his backpack? Where’s his  _ book. _ He sits up. 

The person on his right sucks in a sharp breath and James stands up, but finds himself tilting violently to the right, extremely unbalanced in the absence of a heavy metal arm.  _ The arm is gone.   _ He’s on the floor, chest heaving with panic as he recalls the surgery. His face is twisted into a snarl when he looks up through a curtain of hair and sees Steve staring at him, face gaunt and tired. James pauses, eyes darting around the room. There’s two cameras, a heavy door that probably has guards outside it, the bed, a chair, and a bag of liquid on a stand attached to a tube that is going into his hand via needle. He looks at it in disgust

“What did you do? _ ”  _ he snaps, and finds himself shaking in violent anger. “You took my  _ arm,  _ where is my book? _ ”  _ There’s spittle flying past his lips, but when has he ever cared what people thought of him? Fuck, he’s nearly vibrating out of his skin. 

Steve looks caught in the headlights, and that’s when the door opens and people with guns come in. James moves to tear them apart, rage racing through his blood, but Steve throws a hand out to each of them, stepping in between them, his chest heaving with what looks like fear. He’s staring at the guards, leaving James completely out of his sight, and is this guy  _ stupid?  _ James almost growls as the guards back out of the room, and he realises that Steve is talking to them clearly, but he can hardly hear him past the ringing in his ears. 

“James?” Steve’s saying his name - the one James chose. 

James turns his glare back on, baring his teeth. “What did you do,” he repeats, voice hard like the vibranium shield James knows isn’t too far from here. The Captain always keeps it close. 

“We had to remove the arm - it was killing you, James. You wouldn’t’ve lasted more than a week if you’d kept it. We had no choice.” He seems like he’s pleading for James to understand. 

James takes a step forwards, barely registers the tug of the needle in his vein. “I want it back. You had no  _ right.”  _

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, eyes wide like he means it. Maybe he does. 

A wave of dizziness rolls over James, and he huffs and falls back onto the bed. Steve moves like he’s gonna come close, and James throws his arm out, grinning bitterly. “Don’t you fucking touch me,  _ предатель _ . I trusted you. You let them take my arm.”

“He saved your life by letting them take your arm,  _ солдат _ .” 

James whips around, trying to pull himself into a standing position, but freezes when he sees the woman standing in the door. “Natalia,” he hisses, and the red-headed spy observes him with silent eyes that speak not a word. 

“Yasha,” she merely hums, and moves into the room, shutting the door behind her. A glimmer of someone he used to be flickers through James’ mind.

He watches her, and Steve out of the corner of his eye. Steve seems to start a little at the name - unfamiliar to Steve, but warm to James. Someone he used to be. Natalia comes to stand in front of him, and then she moves slowly to sit down on the bed beside him. Steve shifts his feet, looking troubled. Natalia looks at him. “Go get his bag,” she says, and Steve just nods stiffly, turning and leaving the room.

Although James wants his bag back, badly, he feels cold the moment Steve is out of sight. He shoves it away. He looks down at Natalia, and her face softens just that tiny bit. “What have they done to you?” she whispers, voice heavy with her accent as she speaks Russian. It hadn’t been there at all when she had been speaking English. 

He doesn’t reply. She continues like she hadn’t said anything. “You understand that you would have died if Steve hadn’t let them take your arm?” she asks. He just nods in reply, and she watches him for a moment. “He didn’t want to let them, you know. Wouldn’t let anyone touch you till it was explained to him that you were going to die.”  

“Am I trapped here?” he bites out. 

She just nods. “Yes. But you’re also safe.” 

He scoffs, and then looks her face over again. She does the same. Neither have cracks in their masks. “I didn’t want to shoot you. It was there, in the back of my mind. But you were in the way of my mission,” he murmurs. 

She nods again. 

“Am I going to die here?” he asks, moving his gaze to the cameras. 

“No, Soldier. You’re not,” she says, and then stands to leave. 

He doesn’t move till Steve comes back carrying his backpack and some clothes. 

Steve’s wearing a guarded look on his face, like he doesn’t know what James is gonna do when he comes into the room. The moment James’ eyes zero in on his backpack, he straightens up from where he’d slumped down a bit in his sitting position, and makes grabby hands with his remaining hand. And Steve  _ smiles.  _ James realises that he’s never seen him smile before - except in memories that barely belong to him. Steve hands the backpack over, and James immediately opens it.

The knife and guns are gone, as he expected, but the notebook and pen and empty water bottles are there. He shuts it again, and turns his gaze to Steve. “Thanks,” he says slowly, and Steve ducks his head. 

“Uh, there’s clothes here, if you want them. Do you mind if I…?” he trails off, gesturing towards the chair. James shrugs, and watches as Steve sets the clothes down on James’ bed and sits down. 

“So I’m your prisoner now?” James asks, tracing the outline of the tape on his hand absentmindedly. 

Steve looks up from the floor and his eyes go wide like he’s been personally offended. “No, no, not at all! I mean, well. You can go most places in the tower, as long as there’s someone with you, and you’ll be able to leave eventually.” 

“So, prisoner,” James snickers, and something feels lighter. Are they...Falling back into what they once were? The lightness in James’ heart dims a little, and he frowns. “Steve,” he murmurs. Steve blinks at him, the slight smile that had appeared sliding off his face. James almost doesn’t want to continue. He does, though. “You do realise I’m not Bucky, right? I’m not your friend. I’m not the Winter Soldier, but I’m not your friend.” 

Steve just gives him a sad look. “I know, James.” He says the name like it explains everything. It kind of does. They lapse into silence, and James is fine with that - more comfortable with it than he is with talking, really. But he still has questions, and his throat is itching to let them out. He swallows, and shifts on the bed. He can remember - it really wasn’t that long ago - when he had no need to move for days, no need to talk, no need to blink. Perfectly still, like a machine. He likes it now, the blinking without thinking about it. The moving when he gets slightly uncomfortable. As soon as he does shift, Steve’s eyes cut back to him. James speaks then, voice slightly hollow. 

“Why was my shoulder bleeding so much? The arm could be removed without taking all the metal out,” he says, and Steve’s face goes all hard, like James has said something wrong. 

Steve replies with a voice laced with something akin to horror. “Hydra - they didn’t do well with fusing the arm to your body. It, uh, was sort of just sitting there, bolted to your shoulder socket, and it was pulling at everything. They didn’t take account for the weight, either. There was no reinforcement, it was just  _ there.”  _

James nods, and he expected this. A weapon only needs to work when needed, his discomfort is something his handlers would never think about when pulling the trigger. If the weapon stopped being perfect because of the arm, then they would inject him with something that made the problem go away. James knows that these people - Steve’s people - aren’t like Hydra. Maybe he could...Stay here a while. There’s safety from Hydra here, he knows, and food. He could rest, then take off once he’s healed and got his bearings. It’ll be difficult on his own without the arm, but he’ll manage. He’s got the training of the Winter Soldier. 

“I want to rest,” he hears himself saying. 

Steve stands immediately, and James tenses, eyes slicing to him at the movement. Steve pauses, and he looks like he’s got apology in his eyes. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I think doctors are gonna come in and check on you? You’re...Not gonna kill them, right?” 

  
James just shrugs, and Steve looks pale when he leaves. Then James turns his attention to the clothes, and glances subtly at the cameras. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical procedure/amputation.
> 
> моя любовь - my love.  
> предатель - traitor.  
> солдат - soldier.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings/translations in end notes

James has had entirely enough of being held prisoner - of being at the mercy of someone else. So, with slight difficulty and a missing arm hindering him, he breaks out of the room he woke up in. There’s still rage boiling under his skin, but he’s pushed it aside. He walks just as silently as he did before he broke his programming, avoiding cameras and humans alike - he doesn’t want to have to take anyone out and shatter the trust some of these people have blindly put in him.

Confusion is still reeling in his head - why is he here, alive? Why did they help him? He _knows_ Steve and is gaining more and more memories every day, but James isn’t Bucky. And he never will be again - not the old one, not who he apparently used to be. There is something inside of him, though, something growing and learning that wants what these people are offering - what Steve is offering.

A life of his own.

Now isn’t that a thought. James had never thought he’d get to have one of those - a weapon didn’t have a life. It had a mission, then it had the chair, then it had the cold. That was it. But now...James wants to stay. He wants to wait and see what would happen. He knows that even though they have certain expectations of him here - he’s the Winter Soldier in most of their eyes - he doesn’t even know himself. They can learn with him. They can help him - and he’s long ago learned to swallow his pride. He supposes he’s allowed to keep that now too, though.

He’s been wandering around for a while when he finds himself in front of an elevator. He’d just needed to get out and stretch his legs - re-orient himself in this building and his surroundings. An alarm goes off somewhere. He panics briefly, before squeezing his eyes shut and sucking in a deep breath through gritted teeth. He doesn’t want to go back - not yet.

He steps into the elevator. He taps a random button and although the doors slide shut, the elevator doesn’t start moving.

“I’m afraid you aren’t authorized to access that floor, Sergeant Barnes.”

  
James nearly shatters in his panic, terror squeezing his throat shut because _where the fuck did that come from?!_ He stares around himself, trying to find the source of the apparently bodiless voice, and his heart fucking _jolts_ when he suddenly sees himself in the mirror to his side. He doesn’t have time to properly register himself - he’s fucking filthy, his hair is long and greasy, the whites of his eyes are showing and he looks utterly wild - before the voice speaks again.

“Sir, I apologise, I had no intention to frighten you. May I introduce myself?”

James is freaking out, but he remembers himself as his fingers - five of them - slide into his hair and tug gently, grounding him. He swallows back the rising emotions, and takes a deep breath. No one has attacked him yet. Maybe this sourceless voice has no intention to attack or harm. “Yes,” he croaks, brain wracked with confusion at the question - why is this being asking him if it can do something?

“I am Jarvis, Mr Stark’s artificial intelligence. I mean you no harm,” the voice - Jarvis - sounds sincere.

James begins to calm down, only realising he was shaking when he stops. He should probably try take control over these - these panic attacks. Whatever they are. He doesn’t like them. He has no use for them. It is not allowed - _no._ James takes his time to take several slow, deep breaths, before he decides to speak. “I’m not Sergeant Barnes,” he manages to get out.

“What should I refer to you as, then, Sir?” comes the reply.

“James,” James replies, but even as he says it, he’s unsure. James is just a default name - isn’t it? He shoves his uncertainty away into the ‘deal with later’ box inside his head.

“Well, James, the floor you requested to go to is not within your clearance range. Should I tell Mr Stark that you wish to see him?”

James frowns at the image of himself in the mirror. “Mr Stark,” the names tastes bitter on his tongue, like it comes with bad memories. He pushes them down, refusing to have another episode right now.

The voice is silent for a moment, but then; “I have consulted Mr Stark and he has granted you clearance to basement two.”

The elevator starts moving, and James has to grip the handrail, stomach turning a bit at the feeling. He notes that the elevator is moving down, which means he had been situated on an upper floor. When the doors open, Jarvis speaks once more. “Have a good day, James.” That confuses him.

He doesn’t reply.

He looks around at what is apparently a workshop. He calculates many, many dangers, but disregards them all. They cannot be a danger unless operated by a human. Of which, there is only one here.

Tony Stark sits at a bench, tinkering away at something in front of him. James’ keen eyes can see even from where he’s standing that it’s a piece of his metal arm. He clenches his teeth, but doesn’t move. Then Tony looks up.

“Winter!” he looks delighted for some reason, and James flinches inwardly at the name. There’s still an undercurrent of wariness on Tony’s face and it makes James feel a little better. “Come in, sit, I want to ask you some things about this arm of yours,” he pauses, frowning to himself. “Or Hydra’s. I don’t know.”   

James, within caution, decides that he might like Tony Stark.

He walks forwards, glaring around the workshop warily, and comes to stand at Tony’s side. “Please have a seat, you’re making me nervous,” Tony pipes up. He returns to whatever he was doing, leaving his side open and vulnerable to possibly the most dangerous weapon in the world.

James likes Tony Stark.

James sits down in a chair, and watches the man work. Tony pauses to glance at something a little out of his reach, and scowls. “That screwdriver over there - the small one? I want that,” he says.

James gets it, and holds it out for him to take. Tony eyes it with distaste, and James feels his blood run ice cold. He’s done something wrong, they’re gonna hurt him, what’ll it be this time? They took all the skin off the bottoms of his feet last time, maybe they’d - _no._ James blinks back to the present and finds Tony frowning at him.

“I don’t like to be handed things. Just put it down there,” he half-explains.

James puts the screwdriver down and watches, face a little hot, as Tony picks it up and fiddles around with something on the arm. Something gives and slides open. “Ha!” Tony exclaims, and James can just barely fight the little jump his body threatens to make. “I’ve been trying to figure this thing out since they got it off you - you should thank me for that, by the way. Almost everyone else either wanted to put you down or chuck you in prison somewhere, but I made them do it. It’s my Tower,” he says almost indignantly.

James feels like he’s a weird shade of green right now. “Do you want some coffee? I want some coffee,” Tony speaks up again, like he can’t stop talking. James frowns at him. “God, you’re not going to tell me to sleep, are you?” Tony adds. James frowns harder. Tony sighs and sits back in his chair. “Is there anything you want other than coffee?” he asks.

James stays completely, perfectly still, but somehow manages to frown even more. What does he want? Tony clearly means in the food or drink kind of sense, but James doesn’t really feel the need for any of those. _Want,_ though. Something stabs at the forefront of his mind.

 _Cold, curtains drawn closed, shaking body curled up beside him. Bucky pulls up the blankets from where they’d slid down Steve’s shoulders again, draws them right up to his chin. “Why’d ya have ‘ta go out in the rain_ , _Stevie?” he grumbles, exasperated, trying to mask his panic at Steve being compliant as Bucky looked after him - dried him off, swaddled him in blankets, cuddled him to his side._

 _Steve looks up at him, eyes half-lidded and nose bright red. He sniffles a little. “There was a kitten._ ” _He explains, like it makes complete and utter sense._

 _Bucky stares at him like he’s insane - because he_ is. _A fucking kitten?_ _“Jeez,” he huffs out, pulling Steve closer to him and leaving their bodies flush against each other. He feels a hot stab of_ something _at the warm, soft contact, but shoves it back down as quickly as it came._

_“Fuck you, Barnes, I c’n handle m’self. The kitten had no chance,” Steve presses his cold nose into Bucky’s bare arm and Bucky jolts, biting back a curse._

_“‘Course ‘ya can, Stevie,” he mumbles, and reaches over to the pack of cigarettes sitting on the armrest of the couch._

_He takes one out and goes to light it, but then Steve sniffles again, curling up a little tighter against Bucky. Bucky clenches his jaw and puts the cigarette back, scolding himself for even thinking about smoking with Steve around. He ignores the nagging, restless feeling he gets when he’s stressed and craving a smoke and focuses on trying to slow the frantic beating of his heart._

“Lucky Strikes.” James says and in the present Tony raises an eyebrow before repeating the request to seemingly no one. Jarvis replies with an “I’ll let the staff know, Sir,” and James feels a little less like Tony’s insane.

James takes out the notebook tucked into his jacket pocket and jots down the memory with quick, messy jerks of his hand and then replaces the book carefully back where it’s safe. Tony doesn’t look up from where he’s bent over the arm and James wonders if it’s because he didn’t see or if he could sense that James didn’t want him looking at the only thing he owns - something he treasures more than the bits of his arm laid out on the table in front of them.

They’re silent till the coffee arrives - in a pot, with two mugs - and a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter is set on the table. It’s hard not to notice how the person who delivered them has to force themselves not to stare at James. He deliberately stares off into space while they’re there, and softens his rigid posture to try and seem a little less threatening. It goes smoothly. The person leaves and nothing bad happens.

Tony pours his coffee and sips at it, humming low in his throat. James raises an eyebrow and reaches over, grabbing the pack of smokes. He wonders if he wants to ask how Tony managed to get this exact brand so quickly. He doesn’t.

He opens the pack with little difficulty and pops one of the cigarettes in between his lips. He lights it and turns his gaze to Tony again. “Are you. Going to ask me. About the arm?” he asks, taking in deep drags and frowning as his speech comes out in parts. Okay. Apparently he can’t speak properly now. He shoves it in the ‘deal with later’ box. That box is getting rather full.

Tony doesn’t look up, tapping at a tablet he’s now got in his hands. “Yeah, yeah, in a bit. Hold on,” he replies. He puts the tablet down and makes a sweeping motion in the air over the arm, pulling up a holographic image from the dismantled prosthetic. It hovers in the air and Tony taps a few things, while James watches with rapt interest. He’s seen a few things like this before, but not up close. And not of the arm.

“Right, so, I’ve figured most of it out, but there’s a few things…” Tony trails off and they somehow settle into a comfortable rhythm of back and forth. Tony asks a question every now and then, and James replies, sometimes taking a small moment to search his patchy memories. They get another pot of coffee and James smokes almost continuously. Tony gets an ashtray from somewhere. He also puts the arm away  and starts drawing up a blueprint on the computerised table.

James surprises himself when he actually thinks about why this is happening. “Are you. Going to build. Another arm?” he questions.

Tony just snorts and nods. “The best mechanical arm this damn world has ever seen.”

James feels something warm in his chest and his lips twitch slightly. Then the elevator doors slide open behind them and he tenses up from where he’s previously been relaxed, feet kicked up onto the table in a way that drags up a few memories - quick flashes, not full on episodes.

“Is that...Lucky Strikes?”

He lowers the cigarette and tilts his head to observe Steve and another man as they tentatively enter the workshop. He blows out the smoke before lifting the cigarette to take another drag. He’s searching their faces, both incredulous. Steve looks a little spaced out, like he’s lost in memories. James  figures it has something to do with the particular brand of cigarettes.

“I don’t normally let people smoke in my work places, or in my building in general, but c’mon. It’s the Winter Soldier,” James hears Tony say and sees him spin around in his chair to face the newcomers. James says nothing and realises that the use of the name the Winter Soldier doesn’t bother him when it comes from Tony. James takes a sip of coffee, putting the cigarette down to do so. “Don’t hover, please,” Tony adds before turning back around.

James feels slightly uneasy and focuses on the blueprint. He barely notices that he’s shifted so his vulnerable side is faced away from everyone in the room. Steve and the other man come to sit down with them in chairs and James takes his feet off the table, settles his eyes on the side of Steve’s face. He looks weird, like he’s trying to mask what he’s feeling. James doesn’t know why he bothers; he’s terrible at it. James looks away. He puts the cigarette out, suddenly not wanting to taste the disorientingly familiar smoke.

James looks back at the blueprint and he sees something that triggers a quick flash of a memory. The new knowledge settles heavy in his stomach, uncomfortable and sore. He leans over and zooms in on the spot, standing up to move to Tony’s other side. He’s trying to work up the energy to speak. It’s harder than it should be. He doesn’t want to say this. Tony would want to know, though, and he kind of wants to get it out there.

“They had...a compartment. Here,” he forces out, feeling like he’s got cobwebs in his throat. Fuck. “It has...vials. Of poison. In it. Two were. _Altered.”_ He feels his forehead crease into a frown and his eyes glaze over, memory threatening to take over his mind. He rubs at his right temple, trying to force it away. “For me,” he continues, “in case I was. Compromised.” The pressure in his mind shifts to in between his eyebrows, and he follows it with his fingers. “They didn’t want me. In someone else’s. Hands.” He moves back to his seat on shaky legs and sits down, exhausted.

No one talks for a little while. “Are they still in there?” Tony asks and he means well, James knows that now, but it frustrates him.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just. Remembered now.” He explains and _oh fucking hell there’s lightning in his head, his brain is on fire._ He vaguely registers his hand shifting to grip at the side of his head, like he’s trying to hold his skull together. It feels like it’s splitting apart, _fuck._

> _конец актива_

It’s quiet and it echoes through his head. He waits for the order to take hold of him, to force him to do something he’s only just discovered he doesn’t _want_ to do _._ Then he realises the words were ripped from him _._ James blinks, relief flooding his veins. “That was. The order,” he explains.

“Order for what?” When James looks at Steve, the man looks like he’s going to throw up.

“To end the asset,” James replies, and feels slightly proud as he manages to get the sentence out without stopping. Yeah, what was up with his speech? And - oh. Good going, he'd just shared an order that he might have to follow if one of them say it - and if the commands still work, he _will_ follow it. He will end himself.

“Will it still...Work if it’s said to you?” Steve asks, and as he’s ripped from his thoughts, James wishes everyone would stop talking about this.

He shrugs again, focuses on how weird it feels with only one shoulder. It’s still bandaged up and probably pretty close to needing cleaning out. “I don’t. Know,” he says when he realises he hasn’t replied.

“Are there any other orders?”

The moment the words are out, James can feel the memory’s claws sink into him, dragging him back into darkness. “Some.” He manages to get out, before blood is rushing in his ears and _oh fuck please, no, no, please -_

_He’s yanked out of the chair and he falls to the ground, smacking the side of his face hard on the concrete. He feels the blood in his mouth but doesn’t pay much attention to it - his body is still jolting through the aftershocks and he’s trying to regain control of his eyes, which are rolling in his head._

_“Get up.” The voice is English. Where has he woken up this time?_

_He fights past the post-electrocution side effects and hauls himself to his knees. The person in front of him shoves a boot into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards, hitting the back of his head on the chair. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to force the dizziness out of his head._

_“Get up.”_

_He gets up, knees still weak. They let him stand this time. But then - “Auf die Knie.” He feels it, his body - his_ mind _\- fighting the order, but it’s impossible. He sinks to his knees, gritting his teeth when the boot collides with his chest again. There’s laughter. They’re entertained. He’s going to fucking explode, he’s going to - no. No, he won’t._

_“Get up,” is sneered at him._

_He is nothing. He gets up. “Auf die Knie.” He falls to his knees again, kneecaps cracking on the hard floor with the force of it. He feels a lump in his throat, but - he is nothing. He feels nothing. The agony slides out of his mind. “Get up.” He gets up._

_“Auf die Knie.” Why is the order in German? “Get up.” A bed is wheeled in, and he’s told to get on it. They strap him down. Wheel him out. He stares at the lights overhead, wondering where he’s going now. Another training session? No, not so soon after being electrocuted. Not quite a wipe, but close._

_They enter a white room. Why hasn’t he seen this before? Maybe he has. It’s hard to tell these days. “Auf die Knie,” and, what? He can’t - he’s strapped down, but fuck, fuck it hurts - he has to. He_ has _to obey. Tears unwillingly rise to his eyes as he fights against the straps, writhing and doing everything in his power to follow the order. There’s bruises already forming, and then the straps are breaking, and so is his skin - he’s bleeding - and then he’s on his knees, panting with exertion and relief as he carries the order out. It feels like there’s ants crawling all over his skin as they laugh. He doesn’t look up - he can’t. He kneels before them, head bowed. He’s nothing._

“Right.”

James snaps back to the present and pushes the sick feeling of humiliation down. He doesn’t bother taking out his notebook. He knows he’ll remember this one, even if he doesn’t want to. He winces and turns his head to glare at Tony, who’s still speaking. The man blinks back at him. “I can make you another arm.”

Something soars in James’ chest, but he doesn’t show anything on his face. “ _What?”_ James shifts his gaze to look at Steve as he speaks, and frowns. The man James doesn't know is frowning at Steve too. “Steve…” the man warns.

“A _better_ one,” Tony adds, “one that’d be better for you.”

James just nods and feels that twitch on his lips again. With the threat of a smile, James stands up and grabs the cigarettes and the lighter. Tony doesn’t protest, so he tucks them into his pockets. He’s got new belongings, then. It feels pretty good. “I’m ready to be taken. Back to the. Cell _,”_ he declares.

He looks at Steve, assuming he’ll be the one to escort him, but frowns as Steve hesitates. “You won’t be going back there, bud.” And. What? A tiny jolt of fear has James swallowing back bile. Where will he be going then? “That was just a room for you to wake up in, in case anything went...wrong.” Yeah, in case James flipped out and killed everyone. “And so your condition could be monitored,” Steve finishes.

James gives him his dullest look and then rolls his eyes. He feels like this is something he’s done a lot, back when he was Bucky. The thought tugs at his chest. “Condition. Not a threat,” he mutters. “Where to?”

His eyes linger where Steve bites his bottom lip, and - what? James tugs his eyes away, glancing at the other man, who is watching the interaction with an open expression on his face. He looks...hopeful. “Well, you’re welcome to stay in one of the spare rooms on my floor - nobody but me and you there - or we could have a spare room somewhere else set up for you,” he glances at Tony like he’s checking if that’s alright, but Tony doesn’t spare any of them his attention.

James thinks, hard. He feels so unsure and he’s not used to making his own decisions, but now these options have been presented to him, so…“Your. Floor,” James decides and he figures it’s the right choice because Steve’s face goes all warm and soft for a moment. James likes that.

“Okay.” Steve gestures at the elevator, and James waits for Steve and the other man to go first, , because apparently he’s coming too. And then they’re all in the elevator, which is apparently a problem for James because he can feel himself start to shake, and okay. It’s probably because of the small space and the two Avengers that are in there with him. Captain America has taken him down once before, he could do it again and it’s two against one and - _no._ This is Steve. Safe?

James watches the other man get out of the elevator.

He glances at Steve subtly. Yeah. Safe.

As soon as the elevator doors open and Steve’s out, James follows, scowling at himself and Steve’s back. Freaking out because he got in an elevator with people who’ve only helped him is stupid. He knows this. He looks around the new area and finds cameras. He frowns at them. Maybe Steve does know him, because he’s quick to catch on.

“They’re the only ones,” he promises.

James feels himself relax and then he turns to Steve.

Maybe this won’t be so hard after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Internalised homophobia, brief flashback of torture/humiliation. 
> 
> Auf die Knie - on your knees.  
> конец актива - end [the] asset.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is mainly flashbacks - the warnings are in the end notes.

_ “Mission; success.”  _

_ “Mission; success.” _

_ “Mission; success.” _

_ “Mission; success.” _

_ “Mission; success." _

_ “Mission; success.” _

When James finally tears himself from the memories, he’s thrashing wildly on the floor, mouth stretched wide open in silent terror and unforgiving, bloody horror. He goes limp eventually, body giving out but his chest still heaving and his stomach rolling. He gets to the bin by the door just in time to throw up. Not much comes out; Steve had asked him if he wanted to eat, but he’d lied and said Tony had given him something. He’d just wanted to get some sleep - or, rather, get away from all the people _.  _

He heaves out another acrid retch and then crumples again, faces and names and _blood_ flashing through his mind like a slideshow. He tries to get up, tries to move, but he _can’t._ He can feel himself shaking - he can feel the pieces of himself he’s tried so, so hard to keep together shattering. He grits his teeth and when did he get in this position? He’s on the floor still, on his knees, torso folded over his legs and his hand is gripping and tugging at his hair. His jaw unclenches as a terrible sob rips itself out from deep inside of him. 

_ There were so many.  _

He’s moving now, rocking back and forth in uncoordinated jolts. He can feel himself breaking - the pieces ripping apart and leaving jagged edges, scars in places where he didn’t know he could be hurt. He’d thought he knew every pain the human body could experience. 

Having every single one of his 206 bones broken so he could learn exactly where they were was  _ nothing  _ like this. 

His ribs are aching and his legs are going numb underneath him. Fuck, he has to escape this, whatever it is. Whatever is roiling and screaming inside him. It hurts so much, all over every inch of his body, inside and out, and still more. How can something hurt this much? He thought he knew pain. He was wrong. 

And - oh. 

He gets it with a sudden moment of clarity - the black storm writhing around him, sending sharp knives into his brain, pauses for a moment. This is emotion. 

He wonders if he preferred feeling nothing at all. He wonders if he preferred being a mindless monster. No, not a monster. A weapon. At least then he didn’t have all these _things_ living inside him. He can’t breathe. He sinks back down, his skin is itching and fuck, it feels like it’s being peeled back from his very bones, the ones that are aching and shattered. His body jerks and he slumps over onto his side, eyes rolling back in his head. His head _,_ the one that feels like it’s been put in the middle of the hottest, boiling fire. 

He doesn’t know how to explain this. His brain does it for him as another memory tugs at the edges of his cracked being. He almost feels relief, laying there in the dark spare room. Almost. 

_ Red. Red. Red. A hellish haze of demonic screaming. _

_ It’s like a continuous blow to the head - the bleary haze of not being able to focus your eyes. Like being in the desert and trying to find the horizon but all you’ve got is the grit in your eyes and a blurry vision. Like being in a dream trying to run from a monster but your limbs are heavy as lead and you will never run fast enough. Like a hand around your throat and black dots in your vision and a heavy chest; the inability to breathe. Yeah, it’s exactly like all of those. And then it clears, a brick being lifted off his chest and his head breaks the surface. He can breathe again and he wants to cry with relief.  _

_ And then he remembers why he was in that hell in the first place.  _

_ He sinks back under, static crackling in his ears as he stumblings around that desert, deprived of water and a clear state of mind. All he feels is panic, and while he really cannot breathe, he doesn’t pass out either. He stays tipped on that edge, staring down at something that’s just out of sight. Sometimes there’s moments of fresh, clear air, a deep breath and ice sliding down his throat. But then a bright sword of light crashes down on him and he spasms. He ends up back on his knees, head swimming,unable to see clearly. His blood is thrumming through his veins too quickly and he knows there’s something he needs to be doing, someone he’s gotta look after, but he’s stuck here in hell.  _

_ There’s a lot of red, a door right in front of him. A red shirt. Red under someone’s nails. Red swimming in his vision, red in his mouth and red on the table beside him.  _

_ He becomes slowly accustomed to whatever this blurry place is. He’s constantly dizzy, spinning round and round and he might be dehydrated - but surely he should be past that? If he’s really in the desert he should be dead by now. He’s shocked as he realises he’s thinking clearly, but then he can’t see again and his body feels fuzzy, like he’s got pins and needles everywhere. Sometimes there’s echoes of shouting or patches of screaming. Red seeps into the desert. It looks as if it’s trickling down a windowpane rather than dropping like rain. It floods the desert, but it never seems to reach him. It clogs his throat somehow, gets in his eyes. It takes him an eternity to realise that it’s coming from him, that it’s leaking from his eyes and mouth.  _

_ The door opens, red swinging back to hit the wall with a sharp crack. He doesn’t know where he is. Everything is spinning.  _

_ It’s not long before he grows tired. He’s not confused anymore, just exhausted. Fuzziness is blocking his airflow and he’s gone blind long ago. There’s a lump in his throat that’s impossible to swallow around, and all he can do is choke. He’s not sure if the red is there anymore, but he can taste metal in the air. That’s the one thing he’s sure of. He can’t remember where he is, if he’s anywhere at all. He thinks he spends most of his time stumbling and getting back up. Stumbling and getting back up. Stumbling and getting back up.  _

_ Pressure on his arms. He’s being held down. There’s something in his mouth, fitted to his teeth. He thinks he remembers lightning. Is that a thing? This feels like that. _

_ The haze is red now. And full of hellish screaming. He thinks there’s someone inside his brain - he can hear screaming but there’s no one around. He can tell even with all the grit and sand in his eyes, irritating them till they’re red and sore. The vibrations are constant now, and he really, really wants to clear his eyes and his ears and his mind but he can’t. There’s an infuriating invisible wall right in front of him, stopping him from doing any of that. He is so frustrated; it’s tugging on his chest, pushing him down and he wants to cry, he wants to break down and sob and scream but he can’t do that either. He can’t do anything here. If he could just wake up. Why isn’t he awake? _

_ “Again.” He’s sinking back under. He wants to scream, protest, but he can’t. He can’t do anything. _

_ Why can’t he wake up?  _

_ “We’ll let you wake up,  _ Собака _ , if you do one thing for us.”  _

_ Anything. He’ll do anything to wake up. _

_ “Fight for us.”  _

_ Anything.  _

The storm clears, and James has moved. He’s in the lounge area Steve showed him when he gave him on the tour of his floor in the Tower. Steve had shown him the bathroom too, and he’d finally showered, turning the water to a scorching heat in a desperate attempt to chase away the ice that seems to clog his mind every time he’s unoccupied..

Now he’s standing, limbs completely still. His entire being is unmoving. Except...there’s liquid running down his face, down his hand, in between his fingers. He looks down. Watches a tear drop down onto his hand which is gripping a knife the wrong way, blade settled into his flesh. The tear mixes with the blood. He frowns. Lifts his hand closer to his face. 

The colour is light. It looks...normal. It looks like any other blood he’s shed. 

“ _ Bucky?!”  _

James whips around, the knife already flipping through the air and landing back in his sliced palm, the handle a familiar weight. He raises the weapon, but then his gaze settles on Steve, who is staring at him with something akin to horror in his eyes. James frowns. 

“What are you doing? There’s blood - are you bleeding?” Steve walks forward and James is shocked enough that he’s not deterred by the knife that he lets Steve carefully pry the weapon out of his palm. It drops to the floor, followed by the blood trickling down his fingers. 

James tilts his head to one side, searching Steve’s eyes for some kind of clue as to why his heart rate’s picked up. “What happened?” Steve whispers, like the answer is a secret. 

James curls his lip into a sneer, but then drops it. “Memory,” he offers. 

Steve’s forehead creases in concern and James wants to bare his teeth again. He feels far too exposed. He always does around Steve. “James...I...You can talk to me, if you’d like. About the memories,” Steve murmurs, cautiously raising an arm to place his hand on James’ uninjured shoulder. Steady. Calming. 

James leans into the touch carefully, lips parting at the feel of human contact. He sucks in a shallow breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “No,” he replies. He can’t do that.  _ Mission success.  _ He tears himself away from Steve’s touch and takes a step back. The blood has already stopped flowing from his hand. 

Steve’s face breaks, like a storm over an ocean. “I just wanna help, B- James,” he pleads. 

James stares at him, almost bewildered. “I don’t  _ need _ help,” he lies. Of course he wants it. But he can still do this on his own. “I can do this on my own,” he says, sure of himself. The surety wavers as Steve’s face drops and his bottom lip quivers. He looks off, like he’s somewhere far, far away. 

“The thing is, you don’t have to,” he whispers. 

Something gives in James’ chest, jolts and wriggles and slides makes space for something else. He feels warm, for the first time in decades. He stares up at Steve with something like wonder in his eyes, face void of emotion but his eyes ever a window to the soul. Because he has one of those, now. Steve’s breath hitches, James can see his throat bob through the darkness. A darkness that is slowly sliding away - replaced by light as the sun rises over the city. 

“I said that to you, once,” James says, even quieter than Steve had been.

Steve nods, eyes frantic but his movements slow. The moment feels suspended, like they’re not on Earth anymore. James feels too open, too naked underneath Steve’s searching eyes. He looks away and the moment shatters. The feeling remains, though.

“I have to go,” James murmurs.

He doesn’t have to look up to see Steve’s ever-emotive face cloud over. “Will you come back?” Steve asks, voice still hushed, like he can’t bare to shake the stillness in the room. 

James just looks up, settles his gaze on Steve for a moment before leaving. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing too bad happens, just memories and mentions of past trauma. descriptions of the influence of drugs (hydra drugs) in a memory.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in end notes

Steve’s outside, up on the roof of the Tower. The wind’s whipping his hair every which way, and although the sun rose hours ago and is now warm on his back, he still feels cold. And not just the cold on his skin either. It sinks right through him, freezing his bone marrow and screeching in his head. He’s on his knees right at the edge of the Tower, staring out at the city. There’s something about being so high up, the wind howling in a way that makes him think he’s half deaf again. It almost sets him apart from this world. 

It’s almost,  _ almost _ like he’s back in the 1940’s. 1930’s even, if he tries hard enough. 

He hears the footsteps before he registers that he’s leaning over the edge to get a better view at the ants walking around the city. The steps quicken and a hand lands on his shoulder in such a harsh way it makes him leap, pushing away from the edge. He’s on his feet before he can stop himself, shattering the illusion of being a tiny, sickly punk. 

It’s not the first time he’s pretended. 

No one knows, but sometimes, when the new world gets far too much for him to handle, he likes to slink away from the ever-constant group and just sit somewhere and _be_. Somewhere where there’s no humans, nothing but open sky and the smell of the way things used to be under his nose. He thinks he’s gotten pretty good at imagining the smell. 

It’s not the only thing he does. 

Sometimes, he’ll pull on too-big clothing and sit in his apartment on the ratty couch he asked Tony to buy for him. He’ll shut the curtains, turn all the lights off and just sit. He’ll put an old record on and pull a blanket up to his chin. Then he’ll wrap his arms around himself and focus on the record. On the music. He’ll let it drown him. 

It’s goes further. 

When it gets too bad, the times when he’s staring around this new world - this modern world - and he’s just itching in his own skin, he’ll go to a bar somewhere. He’ll tug a hoodie on and he’ll pull the hood over his head. He’ll sit in the corner and hunch his shoulders down enough that people don’t recognise him. He’ll sit with a glass of what Bucky used to smell like when he came home at midnight, laughing and slurring and tugging on Steve’s hands, pulling him into bed and falling asleep in his arms. He was always gone the next morning. 

The worst, though, is when he can’t be alone. 

When the others are just swarming around him, talking and laughing and poking fun at each other. He sits on the outside, staring in through a glass wall. And he drifts. He lets his eyes slide away from the scene and he’ll return to his and Bucky’s kitchen in their tiny, shitty apartment. He’ll remember talking, laughing, poking fun. He’ll remember wanting to glide closer. Only Bucky really knew how to glide - with the swaggering walk he always had going on. He’ll remember wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and having to stand on tiptoes to do it. And he’ll remember leaning in, brushing his nose against Bucky’s neck and nuzzling into the familiar scent, breathing hot onto the goosebumps rising on Bucky’s skin until Bucky laughs and gives in, leaning down to meet him and pressing his lips, rough but so, so soft, to Steve’s. 

Steve lied. The worst is that that last part never, ever happened. 

And even worse than  _ that,  _ is that Steve doesn’t feel as sick as he should when he imagines it.

And now, Sam stares at him with concern in his eyes and his hands out, palms facing up like he’s showing Steve he’s unarmed. Steve slides back into his body, and he becomes aware of how that body is shaking. His right hand his hovering at his shoulder to reach for a shield that isn’t there. He drops the hand. 

“Steve...Are you alright?” Sam has to ask. 

And fuck, if Steve didn’t wish people would stop asking that. He scowls, dropping his shoulders he didn’t even know were tensed up in defense. Sam searches his eyes and he must see something there - maybe the storm of raging ice and screeching wind - because his face softens a little. Steve clenches his jaw and doesn’t let himself look away. He’s never been one to back away from a fight. Although,  _ this isn’t a fight. Sam’s your friend.  _

“What happened?” Sam pushes. 

Steve looks away. Is he that transparent? He catches Sam out of the corner of his eye glancing at the edge of the building. 

“I wasn’t going to jump,” Steve says, voice scratchy and half carried away by the wind. Sam looks up, eyes going wide, like he hadn’t even thought of that. Steve cringes inwardly. He should have stayed quiet. 

Sam takes a step forward and Steve narrows his eyes. He’s still not used this, people asking if you’re alright and then  _ pushing and pushing  _ when they don’t think you’ve given an honest answer. Steve’s tired, alright? He’s worn down. He hasn’t ever talked about his feelings as much as he has since he was brought back from the ice and he’s thoroughly sick of it. When Sam goes to speak again, Steve doesn’t let him. He doesn’t let him in, he doesn’t let him see past the walls he’s put up.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Sam. I _don’t._ Okay?” he rasps out, hating how his voice still sounds broken, no matter how many walls he’s slammed up. “We didn’t - we didn’t used to talk about things, back then. If something was wrong, you got over it. You worked past it on your own, and if you didn’t, that wasn’t anyone else’s problem. I don’t _want_ to talk about it,” he grits the last bit out. Flashes of ‘are you alright’ are going through his mind, Bucky’s face showing careful concern. James’ well-practised blank one shoves its way in and Steve forces himself to re-focus on Sam, who just looks sad _._

“That ain’t a healthy way to live, Steve,” he says. 

“Don’t care,” Steve shoots back and he pushes past Sam’s shoulder to get out of here, to run _.  _ He gets why James runs so easy, he does. He’s just not used to them running from each other. 

Sam lets him go. Steve immediately feels bad that he’s taking his temper out on his friend, but he shoves it down. He’s allowed to be something other than nice sometimes, alright? Something other than Captain America _.  _ And, fuck, Sam knows he’s not just Captain America, but he can’t handle the shock in anyone’s eyes when they see a glimpse of the darkness in him. 

Because it is there, the darkness. Always has been, no matter how good everyone thought he was. Is.  

He gets pulled out of his thoughts when he nearly walks into Natasha on the way back to his floor. She raises an eyebrow at him. He just wants to be alone for a while. “James is gone,” she says.

“I know,” is all Steve can manage to get out. 

Natasha frowns, a crack in her mask showing disbelief. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone? Didn’t think to stop him?” she asks, incredulous. 

He nearly explodes. Nearly. Instead, he lowers his voice and looks her dead in the eye. “I’m not his keeper. And neither are any of you.”

“ _ Us, _ Steve. Any of  _ us _ ,” she corrects, the mask slipping back in place. God forbid she ever let anyone see the truth behind her eyes. Fuck, he’s hypocritical  today. “And I think you’re forgetting he’s not Bucky _.  _ He’s a killer. An unstable, highly trained, brainwashed assassin.”

He has to take a deep breath. “The longest suffering prisoner of war, subjected to seventy years of torture, a Sergeant of the US military and one of the best damn men I’ve ever had the honor to fight alongside,” he finishes for her. 

She seems to be boiling under her mask, yet she doesn’t even twitch. “You’re being reckless, Steve. He’s not the man you think he is.”

“You’re telling me?” he bites out, and then he sidesteps her. 

“I’m going out to look for him, Steve. Don’t be disappointed if the man I bring back isn’t a man at all,” she calls out after him.

He doesn’t bother to reply. 

As soon as he locks himself in his apartment he breathes out, feeling light-headed. He can only manage to take a few breaths before he’s sliding down the wall and curling into a ball. The ice has cracked its way out of his soul and encased him in a tomb. 

Wouldn’t be the first time. 

And, hell, on a fleeting thought, he wishes it would be the last. 

<>

When James comes back, slinking in through the concerningly unlocked door, he feels like the jumbled mess in his head has cleared a bit. That’s new. He walks silently, eyes keen even in the darkness, and tunes his ears to every sound in his hearing range. It surprises him to hear someone breathing so near. He looks around and pinpoints the source of the sound. 

Steve’s curled into a ball on the ground, back pressed against the wall. Asleep. 

Well, asleep would be a kind way to put it. He’s whimpering, hands twitching, and he keeps sucking in these big gasping breaths like he can’t breathe properly. Something thuds in James’ chest and he finds himself gravitating towards the man, slowly lowering himself to his knees. He reaches out tentatively, fingers spread as he lays them on Steve’s shoulder. The effect is instantaneous - he jolts awake, shooting into a sitting position with his fists raised like he’s ready to fight to the death. His chest is heaving, his eyes are so wild and unseeing that James feels his heart - he has one of those these days - sinking down low, low into his stomach. He recognises every single part of this - he’s experienced it all himself.

“Steve,” he says.

Steve’s gaze shifts, some of the darkness leaking out of it, and he slumps a little, eyes still misted over. “Bucky?” his voice sounds wrecked, like he’s been crying for hours. 

James studies the wetness of his cheeks, the swelling around his eyes and decides that he probably has. With another evaluation of the still shaking man, he also decides that he’s not here and now. He’s back somewhere, way back when things still made sense. He understands that, too. Sympathy sits heavy in his gut, and he figures he can play Bucky Barnes, at least for a little while. 

“Yeah, bud. C’mon, why’re you on the floor? Get up,” he drawls, voice suddenly the perfect replication of Brooklyn accent. 

The way Steve instantly relaxes, falling into James, leaves a lump in James’ throat. This man is just as broken as him. He sees that now. Maybe he should stop being so harsh on him. He’s  _ trying.  _ They both are. Steve reaches out and James lets him wrap his arms around him. He tries not to tense, and responds by hugging Steve back. “Where’ve ya been, Buck? Ya smell different,” Steve mumbles, nose pressing into the damp fabric of James’ jersey. 

James wonders what he used to smell like, and why Steve would know that smell well enough to tell the difference. “Jus’ out, Stevie. C’mon, we’re off ta bed,” he sighs, and he hauls the limp man up as well as he can with one arm. 

Steve almost seems drugged - slow and barely responding. A soft smile curls onto his lips, though, and he lets James lead him into his room and onto his bed. “Ya bleedin’, Buck,” Steve hums, and James freezes. “Been fightin’ ‘gain?”

James relaxes when he realises that Steve is still stuck in the past. He wonders if this happens often. “What were ya dreamin’ ‘bout, Stevie?” he says. He is not above changing the subject to avoid talking about the blood he’s covered in, even when Steve’s like this. 

Steve stills from where he was shifting under the covers, trying to get comfortable. “The ice.”

The words are so cold, and Steve is so still, so frozen, that James wonders if he’s broken out of the past his mind is locked in. Then he softens and sighs, tugging the blankets up under his chin. He frowns at James, like he’s done something wrong. James ignores it as a flash of memory goes through his mind. His hands coming up to tuck Steve in when he’s too weak from sickness to do it himself but lucid enough to have to swallow back pride. He shakes out of it when Steve speaks again, voice so quiet he nearly misses it. 

“I didn’t really wanna die, Buck, promise. Jus’ wanted ta see ya again,” he sighs, and then rolls over, eyes sliding shut. 

James stands there for a moment, limbs frozen in shock. Then he moves, shaking himself out of his stupor and quietly leaving the room. He shuts the door behind him and he finds that his knees feel weak. His hand comes up to rest at the base of his throat and he flexes his fingers slightly. His eyes stare ahead of him, unseeing. In his mind, he remembers being curled into a ball in the middle of a white room when someone flings a newspaper at him.

He remembers being confused. He remembers picking it up cautiously, wondering if it was some kind of trick. A new test. He remembers reading over the words maybe a thousand times, shaking so hard the paper eventually fell from his fingers. Remembers smiling so sweetly at a guard the next day it shocked them into stillness for a moment. Remembers taking the first opportunity he could, pressing the shard of glass so hard into his throat that he was choking on blood within seconds. 

Remembers waking up with stitches and tight smiles hovering above him.  _ You belong to us. We decide if you die, if you live. In fact, there is no  _ you.  _ There is only a weapon. Got it? A weapon doesn’t choose to shoot, a weapon doesn’t choose to die. A weapon doesn’t choose to live. A weapon doesn’t choose anything.  _ A pause.  _ Wipe him.  _

He’s shaking now, Steve’s words echoing in his ears. Memories from earlier today echoing there, too. He’d been flooded with pre-serum Steve before, and then as he’d gone seeking violence, seeking release, he’d been forced through war memory after war memory. Then he’d found himself at a smaller Hydra base, tearing out a throat, destroying machine after machine. Only three people there, no guards. They’d clearly been deserting the place; there were no computers, no papers. But it had quenched his need for death - the need that sent his body shaking and out of control. He’d been steady after, but now... 

He needs to kill every single Hydra bastard out there. 

Bile rises in his throat - he’d managed to get some food from a street vendor and keep it down - but he swallows it back, gritting his teeth. He blinks back tears, mouth opening and closing again as he works his jaw. His chest feels heavy, and his lips go white with how hard he’s pressing them together. God, he remembers almost everything now, only some parts still foggy. Everything else is clear. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, face following. His lips part and he wonders how the hell he and his Stevie ended up here, of all places. How did they both manage to get this fucked up?

He chokes back a sob and sinks to the floor, back sliding down Steve’s door. He takes his gun out - the one he managed to find before leaving the Tower - and lays it in his lap. 

  
He sits there in silence for the rest of the night, eyes staring straight ahead in silent vigil for the way things used to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings; suicidal idealisations/thoughts, internalised homophobia (you'd have to squint to see it)


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in end notes!

Everything is quiet when Steve wakes up. And he’s in his bed. He sits up with a jolt, heart leaping in his chest because he’d fallen asleep in the corridor and - oh. He blinks slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. When he opens his bedroom door he can immediately tell there’s no one else in the apartment. Disappointment wells in his chest, but he forces it back down and simply moves to the kitchen to make some coffee. 

“Jarvis, have you got a location on James?” he asks, glancing towards the ceiling. He hates that he can’t look at whoever he’s talking to. It feels wrong. 

“He is in the workshop with Mr Stark, sir,” the AI replies, and Steve thanks him distractedly. 

He waits for his coffee, leaning against the counter and letting the events from last night swallow him. He can’t believe he’d been out of it enough to let his guard down that much. He wonders where the blood had come from, too. And why James had been absolutely covered in it. When the coffee’s ready, he takes two mugs down to Tony’s workshop, foot tapping nervously in the elevator. 

James and Tony are standing around a holographic computer; Tony tapping away at something and James has his right arm underneath a device that looks like it’s scanning his whole arm - shoulder to fingertips. A cigarette hangs off his lips, smoke curling up through the air. Steve finds that although he looks exhausted, James seems perfectly at ease.

His shoulders are still stiff and his middle still taut, but he’s leaning casually onto a table and his neck is loose while he keeps an eye on the scanner. He’s freshly showered too - all the blood is gone - and his skin is slightly red, like he’d spent a long time scrubbing it off. His eyes are distant, but they look lighter today, somehow. His hair has been scraped up into a bun, strands hanging out and tickling his neck, draping past his ears and down his temples, little curls licking over his forehead. The bun’s loose and it shows off how shiny his hair is - it looks like it’d be so soft, something that Steve would really, really like to run his fingers through. 

That thought makes Steve tear his eyes away and clear his throat. James doesn’t even twitch, but Tony jumps slightly, spinning around. “Steve! Is that coffee? Come here,” Tony holds his hand out, but just points at the table when Steve offers him a mug. 

Steve sets the mug down and turns to James. His old friend is watching him with glacier grey eyes, sharp and searching. The scanner makes a sharp sound and a life-sized image of James’ arm appears on the screen in front of Tony, who makes a pleased sound. James clenches his fist and then slowly relaxes it, before moving his arm and taking the cigarette out of his mouth, blowing out a cloud of nicotine. Then he  _ grins.  _

“Coffee,” he hums, holding his hand out. 

Steve complies, a little dazed, and hands him the mug. James takes it and do his cheeks hold a little more colour than yesterday? He can’t look away when James lifts the mug to his lips and sips from it, a small smile curving at the edges of red lips. He sets the mug down and lifts the cigarette up to take a drag, and  _ then  _ Steve rips his gaze away as James’ cheeks hollow. 

Fuck, he shouldn’t be reacting like this. He just shouldn’t _.  _ He shouldn’t be watching James this much, shouldn’t be so aware of him. It’s probably just because it’s still unbelievable that James is here. Alive. Steve swallows and closes his eyes for a moment, shoving it all out of his head. He comes over to stand beside Tony, looking at the plans for a new arm. 

“So it’s going well?” Steve asks, and Tony glances at him for a split second before turning back to his work. 

“Yeah, it’s moving along. I’ve got the shipment coming in in two days and I should be able to get started then,” he shrugs, and James perks up from his spot a few meters away from them.

Steve forces himself not to think about the sudden brightness for too long. “That’s...That’s real great,” Steve breathes and he means it, too. It is great. 

“Soooo…” Tony messes around with a few things, moving pieces of the blueprint around, before turning to Steve, his eyes briefly flicking to James. “I caught wind of a rumor that James has been seen collapsing in the Stark Tower lobby,” he finishes. 

Steve goes tense and he can feel James bristling behind him. Tony observes both of them, something flickering behind his eyes - like he’s evaluating the abrupt change from Steve and James to Captain and Soldier. He continues slowly, as if he’s being careful not to set them off. “On the news and all that - face the perfect replica of James Buchanan Barnes and everything,” he pauses, still looking between the two of them. Steve grits his teeth, wishing he would get on with it. “I’ve been asked to make a statement on whether or not it is James.”

James puts his cigarette out, grinding it into the ashtray next to him. He stalks forwards, coming to stand just behind Steve’s shoulder. Steve fights not to gravitate towards him and holds still, tensing up even more. James stays silent, chin lowered enough that he’s staring at Tony from under dark eyelashes, eyes hooded. Steve should feel threatened, with the assassin looming right behind him, but all he feels is warmth as his best friend stands near him. 

“And?” Steve pushes when Tony remains silent for too long. 

Tony shrugs, turning back to his work. “James who?” 

Steve feels James relax behind him, feels the relieved breath gust past his ear. He starts as he feels a warm hand wrap around his elbow, twisting around on instinct, hackles raised. James simply looks at him, eyes warmer than they’ve been in...decades. Steve swallows and James tugs on his elbow, taking a step back. He doesn’t seem up for talking today and Steve’s slowly learning how much he changes every day. He’s learning how to deal with it already, too, learning how to react to certain situations. 

Tony doesn’t look up when James grabs his cup of coffee and leads the way to the elevator. Steve feels incredibly light as James lets him walk behind him. They go back to Steve’s floor, James pressing the button and letting Jarvis direct them instead of talking. They’re still silent as James leads them to sit on the couch. They’re silent as James finishes the coffee, setting the mug down carefully on the coffee table. They’re facing each other, backs pressed into the armrests and knees pulled up to allow both of them to fit on the couch.

Steve thinks James’ going to talk now but he just smiles and studies Steve’s face. Then he settles back into the couch cushions and folds his shoulders forwards. Steve’s so confused - this is such a stark difference to yesterday morning and it would be giving him whiplash if he wasn’t so content right now. He suddenly feels exhausted  - sleep wasn’t easy nor restful last night, not even after James helped him into bed. 

So he shuts his eyes. He lets himself rest, breathing in the comfort of having James  _ right there,  _ and wow. He hasn’t really let that sink in, has he? James is here. “M’glad you’re here, James,” he breathes out, quieter than he meant to. He wonders if James heard him. 

“Bucky.”

Steve cracks open one eye and looks down the couch to find James staring at him funny, a calm look on his face. It looks like serenity. Something catches in his throat, and he has to blink back the sudden wetness in his eyes. “What?” he asks. 

“I’m...You can call me. Bucky.” His sentences are broken into parts again, but he smiles when he finishes this one. 

Steve feels the wetness sliding down his cheeks, now, feels his heart burst wide open. His face does too, and he feels like the ocean on a summer's day - the air crisp and clear, carrying the taste of freedom and tranquility. With a sudden jolt of realisation, Steve finds he can breathe again, like something has just loosened his lungs. His heart seems like it’s beating smoother, too. 

“Buck?” is all he can get out. 

Bucky just nods, smiles, and tilts his head back on the armrest, eyes fluttering closed, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. Steve watches him in wonder and feels a weight sliding off his shoulders. He lets his head drop back too and closes his own eyes. For once, he’s asleep within minutes. 

<>

Bucky doesn’t sleep but he sits there silently, head still tilted back. He listens to Steve’s breathing, smooth and slow, and wonders when he started to change from James into Bucky. Sometime during the night, for sure, while he was mourning a life he’d only just began to remember. A life that was still going on. Another life with Steve in it. 

Maybe...maybe he’s come to peace with the fact that he really is Bucky - changed and warped and with seventy years of memories that aren’t really his, but Bucky all the same. He’s mourned, taken time to think over every part of his life, thought about all the times he’d had regrets, thought about all the times he hadn’t been Bucky. Thought about all the times he had been. 

And now, looking over at Steve? He’s Bucky again. Or he could be. Eventually. He has a lot of shit to get through but his mind is clear. He has support, whether he wants it or not. Tony is making him another arm, for fuck sakes. Steve is still here, sleeping, with his defenses down even though Bucky had nearly killed him not so long ago. And the others? Bucky would figure them out. Maybe he’d let them figure him out, too. 

A kick to the shin rips him from his thoughts. His head jerks up, eyes flying open to see Steve’s face. He’s still asleep, but his face is torn between slumber and terror. He kicks out again and whimpers. Bucky stares in disbelief. So last night hadn’t been an uncommon occurrence. He reaches out and hovers his hand over Steve’s face, wondering if he should wake him up again. 

He doesn’t have to make the choice. Steve shoots up, awake in a heartbeat, and stares at Bucky, who is still leaning over him, hand raised. “B-Bucky?” Steve breathes out, chest heaving, eyes wild. 

Bucky just nods. 

“C-Can I...Can w-we…” Steve doesn’t finish, just brings his knees up against his chest and buries his face in them. 

Bucky stares. It’s all too familiar. He never would have thought that  _ Steve  _ of all people - his Steve or the one he knows now, because they aren’t the same person - would suffer like this. But it isn’t that hard to believe when he really thinks about it. He just wishes he knew what Steve was dreaming about. 

"Yes?” Bucky prompts, his heart aching with memories of a time when they could tell each other anything without thinking about it. 

Well. Almost anything. “C-Can - “ Steve stops again, but he takes a deep breath and tries one more time. His eyes dart away from Bucky’s, settling on something far away. “Can I hug you?” he whispers, so low Bucky would’ve thought he’d heard wrong if it hadn’t been for Steve’s face flaring up bright pink. 

Bucky shifts, thinks it over. Steve’s not just  _ asking,  _ he’s genuinely checking if it’s okay. Bucky nods when Steve’s eyes flick back to meet his. “Yeah, Stevie,” he sighs. Steve makes a sound low in his throat and scoots over, wrapping his arms around him. 

Bucky responds with a heat he didn’t know he possessed, hugging back just as tightly, holding on for dear life. He feels it before it rips its way out of him - it rises in his chest and catches in his throat. He sobs, palm splayed in between Steve’s shoulder blades. There’s no need for him to hold on so tight; Steve’s nowhere near letting go. He grips Bucky closer, burying his face in between his neck and shoulder, sucking in deep, gasping breaths. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, so so sorry -” he’s gasping and sobbing, losing control over his breathing. “I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, so, so so-sorry,” he’s choking, trying to force the words out, and Bucky can hardly bear to listen. 

Any doubts he had about him not being Bucky - that the memories of his and Steve’s life together were somehow fabricated - fly out the door now. This kind of raw, desperate emotion is something you can’t fake. So he lifts his hand, sliding it up Steve’s back, and lets it rest at the base of his neck. “No, no, shhhhh, you’re alright. Breathe, Stevie, you gotta breathe,” he’s rambling, chest so full of _things_ he’s on the verge of breaking down too. 

“S-so sor-sorry, Buck,” Steve chokes, and Bucky’s skin is wet - on his face, sliding down his cheeks and on his neck, warm and full of sorrow. 

“It’s alright, Steve. We’re alright,” Bucky promises, and how the hell did they get here?

Steve huffs out a wet laugh and pulls back a little. He seems to have to force his eyes to meet Bucky’s as he swallows. Bucky frowns in concern. “I’m so sorry for letting you fall, Buck,” Steve whispers, and Bucky  _ breaks.  _

He launches himself forwards, hauling Steve back into a hug, and positively shakes with how much he’s crying. “You didn’t, fuck, God, you didn’t, it wasn’t your fault - Steve,” he tries to tell him. He can feel Steve shaking his head and his body is vibrating with the need to get the point across. “Stevie, no, no no no, don’t - don’t blame yourself. Y’can’t.” And Steve’s still shaking his head but he’s calmed down, breathing no longer scarily erratic. 

It grows quiet except for the wet hitching breaths every now and then. 

“I’m sorry for what they did to you,” Steve mumbles from where his face is smushed into Bucky’s chest. 

Bucky just hugs him tighter. “Me too,” he admits, and they both seem to slump, freed from some of the weight they’ve been burdened with. They both have so far to go but; “I’m sorry you felt like you had to put the plane in the water.”

And fuck. Steve tenses all over. Bucky thinks - no, he  _ knows -  _ that Steve’s gonna deny it. But then: “Me too,” he chokes out. And then he’s crying again, silent, tears sliding down his face. 

They pull apart slowly, still touching, looking at each other with such openness it should scare Bucky. It doesn’t. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore - he’s allowed to feel. He’s allowed to  _ be.  _ God, he can hear Steve’s heart beating, can hear his shallow breathing. Steve’s face is so heartbreaking - open and sad and utterly destroyed, but he still looks like the sun. 

“This is the first time you’ve admitted it was on purpose, isn’t it?” Bucky has to ask.

Steve doesn’t reply, but they both know. 

So they sit there, crushed against each other’s chests, until they slump into the couch, three arms holding on so tight you’d think they were facing the edge of a cliff. 

*

“Clint, quit it.”

“But look _.  _ Look at them.”

“This is disrespectful. They’re  _ sleeping.” _

“Oh my god, did Cap just nuzzle James’ chest?”

“Tony, shut it, you’re gonna wake them up.”

“How haven’t they woken up already, James is a super assassin and Cap is  _ Cap.” _

“Did you see that?”

“I think James twitched.”

“Fuck, are they awake?”

Steve sighs heavily, breath tickling along Bucky’s neck. The warmth makes him twitch and he opens his eyes, scowling. His glare lands directly on the four people in the room, two of which have cameras out. Three of them look apologetic, wide eyes like deer caught in the headlights. One just looks guarded, eyes narrowed on the non-existent space between Bucky and Steve. 

Bucky continues glaring at them, fingers twitching for his knife. Why are they in here? They had been sleeping, completely defenseless. Steve moves in his sleep, huffing out another breath over Bucky’s skin. He feels goosebumps raise along his neck and he narrows his eyes even further. He manages to look perfectly terrifying, even with Captain America wrapped around him like a koala and his own hand digging into Steve’s ribs to keep him close. 

Natalia narrows her eyes back, while Clinton Barton, alias: Hawkeye, and Sam Wilson, alias: Falcon, shiver slightly. Tony looks extremely smug, once the shock of being caught has worn off. He takes another picture. The sound of the fake shutter finally rouses Steve, who frowns in his sleep and snuffles, nuzzling into Bucky’s chest a bit more. Steve hums low in his throat and finally cracks open one eye. The other is half-open, half-slitted from where his face is smushed into Bucky’s chest. Bucky forgets about the others in the room for a moment, and he can feel his glare softening as Steve stares up at him with a smile on his face. 

The shutter goes off again. 

Steve reacts like someone’s been shot, body recoiling from Bucky’s and coming into a stiff standing position within the space of a second. Bucky’s skin stings from where he’s suddenly cold, the sun ripped away from him. He shudders and stands as well, shoulder knocking against Steve’s. Steve flinches away and Bucky stills, going cold all over. He turns his head away from the others and tries to read Steve’s face. For once, he can’t. The only thing that looks off about him is the clenching of his jaw. 

“What are you all doing in here?” Steve asks, voice cracking once, sounding absolutely wrecked. 

The others look caught in the headlights again. Bucky manages to look away from Steve, feeling like he’s been shoved back into cryofreeze. From the corner of his eyes, Bucky can see Steve frown, searching all of their faces. Tony lowers the camera phone. Clint’s already put his away. 

“Um. We…” Tony starts to explain, then looks at the others with desperation in his eyes. Bucky would find this funny if they hadn’t invaded their privacy - even if it was harmless - and if Steve wasn’t...What  _ was  _ he doing? Why was Steve freaking out this much?

“Clint came in to say hi, he was bored. You two were sleeping and he had the genius idea to send a photo to the group chat. We turned up,” Natalia explains, voice slow and careful. She’s watching Steve, eyes probing. 

Clint nods, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean any harm?” he says it like a question, eyes darting back and forth between Steve and Bucky. 

Bucky glowers. “Knock next time,” he bites, and then turns and stalks off. He can’t handle this; privacy has become a massive thing for him after being so long without it. And Steve’s reaction shows that this situation is supposed to be a big, terrifying thing. He knows it’s not. He knows they meant no harm. He just. He can’t deal with Steve leaping away like they were doing something  _ wrong.  _

There. That’s it. That’s what’s wrong. Bucky could probably brush it off with a stern warning and then sit and show them that there was no hard feelings, but Steve… Steve was acting like it was the 1940’s again. Like them cuddling on the couch - because fuck, they  _ had  _ been cuddling - is still illegal. Or rather, what it implied is still illegal. Like it is still disgusting. Wrong. 

Something ugly threatens to rip itself out of Bucky’s chest as he slams his door behind him. 

There’s still blood in here, puke in the bin. It smells. He takes the bin and puts it in the ensuite, shutting that door too. He leaves the blood. He’s used to the blood. It doesn’t bother him as much. And now, all Bucky feels is confused. So he curls up in the corner, and  _ hides.  _ He’ll come out when they’re all gone. Including Steve. 

<>

“Steve? Man, you alright?” Sam’s looking at him like he can see the fear, see how much his hands want to shake. 

Steve wants to run, just like Bucky did. He can’t believe he broke down like that again. Wasn’t Bucky supposed to be the one healing? Supposed to be the one with problems, the one breaking down all the time? And here he was, crying onto Bucky’s shoulder like he was the one falling apart. 

But hell. He was. But he was also pulling himself back together again, and that’s all that matters.

He settles all of them with his carefully blank look and unclenches his jaw. “Fine. Did you still need something?” he asks stiffly, and he knows he’s being a dick but he can’t help it right now.

What did they think of him now? Think of Bucky? They’d all seen them, cuddling on the couch like they were... _together._ Like that. Together like that. And they weren’t - Bucky wasn’t like that. _Steve_ wasn’t like that. He wasn’t. He _wasn’t._ They’d taken pictures too. And what? Group chat? That meant all of the Avengers had seen them. 

He has to swallow back bile. 

“No. No, man, we’re fine,” Steve says. Sam’s frowning, and Steve wants to puke. 

They’re still looking at him. His hands start shaking, breaking through the careful blankness he’d forced his body into. Three pairs of eyes shoot down to the movement, and he moves out of the space between the couch and the coffee table. Clint, who is staring at him apologetically, opens his mouth to say something. Steve’s heart is beating too fast. 

“Does anyone want anything to eat? Drink? I’m gonna get something.” If he eats something he’s gonna throw up. 

He goes to the kitchen anyway, puts the kettle on. The tension in the air is heavy on his shoulders. The clarity and peace that had settled into his bones the same way he’d settled into Bucky’s arms - fitting perfectly, like a fucking puzzle piece - dissipates, leaving behind sizzling, burnt-out hope. 

“Steve, what’s up? Talk to us, man.” Sam’s still talking, moving over to the kitchen, forehead creased in concern. 

God, he feels hollow. “I’m fine. Look, I’m gonna go out for a run.” His hands are shaking so much he’s glad he can hide them behind the counter.

“I’ll go with you,” Sam says immediately.

“I’m  _ fine.”  _ Steve snaps, and then recoils like he was the one that got yelled at. 

Everyone looks slightly shocked and Steve closes his eyes. When he opens them, they just look sad. He can’t handle this. He walks out past them, kettle still rumbling in the kitchen, and makes sure to leave the front door open so they get the hint to leave. He knows Bucky doesn’t want them in there. He probably feels trapped right now. Fuck, what would he be thinking? Steve rakes a hand through his hair and steps into the elevator before the others can follow. 

  
He goes to his usual spot and runs until he throws up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> internalised homophobia, some talk of past suicide.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in end notes

The moment he hears them leave, Bucky shudders out of his position - still curled up on the floor and nearly tearing his hair out. He stands up and walks to the door, hand moving slowly to twist the handle. He pauses, opens the door and looks around, calculating every change in the hallway. There is no one. He moves swiftly, feet silent as he strides out of the front door, heading straight for the elevator. 

Quiet movements behind him lock down his muscles. He twists around, knife already out, spinning through the air and landing in his nearly-healed palm. He’s in a battle stance, ready to kill. It’s as easy as breathing - one moment he was heading outside, reeling from events, the next he’s ready to kill someone. 

Natalia stares at him with fiery green eyes, lips pursed in distaste. 

He doesn’t put the knife down. She narrows her eyes. “I’m not here to harm you, Yasha,” she says. 

He doesn’t trust her, even with their past.  _ Especially  _ with their past. “Then what do you want?” he counters, body completely still. 

“To give you some advice,” she offers, one eyebrow arching. 

He glares as he feels the hairs on the back of his neck raise. “And that would be?” he prompts.

“Be careful with Steve; he’s not nearly as okay as we all like to think he is.” She shrugs, rolling her weight onto her left leg. He tracks the movement and wonders if he should do it too, to keep up the appearance that he acknowledges that sort of discomfort like everyone else. Like it hasn’t been trained out of him. He decides he won’t bother - not with Natalia. 

“I know,” he says, voice a little lower and a little more emotive than intended. 

She gives a short nod. “He needs just about as much therapy as you do,” she adds, and a dart of white hot fury rushes through him. He suppresses it. He knows she’s right - he knows it’d help him. He just. Can’t. 

“And if neither of us want it?” he asks.

She shrugs, eyes still boring into his, searching for something - anything, probably. “People will assume you’re hiding something and Steve will continue to run himself into the ground.” 

Emotions are constantly getting in the way now that Bucky’s letting them. “I will agree to a psychoanalysis. Give me time to think about anything further,” he pauses, eyes flicking away from Natalia’s face for a moment. “Give me some time to talk to Steve too,” he asks. 

She nods and hesitates, face twisting like she wants to say something more. Then she moves, gliding past him and stepping into the elevator. He stays where he is, carefully tracking her movements. She gives him time to decide if he’s going to join her or not, but when he shows no sign of moving, she just presses a button and the doors slide closed. He waits until he feels like he can move again and slowly unlocks his knees, walking forwards with stiff steps and a massive headache. 

He stops shaking when he gets outside. The air hits his cheeks and blows his hair out of his face. He’d tugged it out of its bun before he left his room.

He only agreed to the psychoanalysis because he knows it’ll keep them off his back. He has nothing to hide, no secret intentions. All he wants is a safe place to heal. His mind is a mess, but not as much as everyone thinks it is. He’s healing quickly - he’s pretty sure most of his important memories are back, and the only dangerous thing about him is the sleeper commands. That and the things he’s capable of - if he wants them to be. 

And fuck, if that doesn’t feel good, knowing that if  _ he  _ wants to do something, he can. It’s his choice. 

He walks forward again, pulling his hood up to hide his face. He wanders for a bit, simply getting some fresh air and letting his head clear again. He ends up in the park where Steve chased him that first time - where he ran so fast, so hard to get away. He thought it was Hydra. How wrong he was. 

He stands under the trees, watching the shimmering and shifting water of the massive pond. There are a lot of people around, walking, talking. Some are running. And - oh. Is that Steve? 

The man is quick - running hard and faster than he needs to. It’s definitely Steve. Bucky watches him as he goes around and around, passing other runners and just  _ not stopping.  _ Bucky stays hidden, a frown appearing on his face. Minutes tick past. Steve doesn’t stop. He’s pumping his arms faster, legs clearly being forced to keep moving, and his movements are starting to get jerky and more uncontrolled. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky mumbles under his breath, stepping forwards, feeling like he needs to do something. 

This Steve is not his Steve. They’ve both changed so much, come into this new world and found each other again. Or rather, found the bits of each other that remain. Darkness comes into the edges of Bucky’s vision and he steps backwards, keeping his back against a tree. The memory that takes him is different than the others; it washes over him slowly, warmly, almost like a caress. He shivers and sinks down. 

_ They’re on their old, ratty couch, the sun beaming in through the window on the far side of the wall. Bucky’s stretched out, taking up the whole thing, feet hanging over the edge of the armrest. Steve’s on top of him, face resting on Bucky’s chest and one hand reached up to curl in Bucky’s hair. The other rests at his side, fingers splayed open and warm against Bucky’s bare skin.  _

_ The weather is nice for once, sunny and warm enough to have the window open. Steve’s breathing smoothly and his heart hasn’t been having as much trouble lately. Bucky glances at him when Steve shifts in his sleep, fingers tugging slightly at Bucky’s hair. He shouldn’t shiver at the feeling - he really shouldn’t - but he does anyway. The sunlight reaches the couch, which is why Bucky is there in the first place - soaking up the warmth like a cat.  _

_ They’ve ended up like this because Bucky - as always - refused to give up the couch where he was sprawled over it, taking up every inch. Steve wanted to sit down, maybe draw something in the nice light. Bucky didn’t move. Steve, being just as stubborn, simply plonked himself down and sprawled out as well, unperturbed by Bucky’s half-nakedness. Why would he be?  _

_ Bucky still didn’t move. “Are you gonna give up?” Steve had asked.  _

_ Bucky’d just grunted and turned his face back to the sun, shutting his eyes. Steve’d dug his fingers into Bucky’s sides, tickling the living hell out of him, but Bucky’d simply whined and pushed at him till he quit. So, stubborn as they were, neither gave up. Steve fell asleep twenty minutes ago, sighing out a warm breath and slumping down, body going lax on top of Bucky’s. _

_ Bucky shouldn’t like it as much as he does.  _

_ Steve shifts again on Bucky’s chest and Bucky looks down in time to see him blink his eyes open. Bucky smiles at him, just a small lift of the corners of his lips, but he can feel the fondness shining through his eyes. Steve goes to smile back - Bucky catches the small twitch of his mouth - but then his face falls instead.  _

_ “Oh, shit, sorry, Buck.” He untangles his hand from Bucky’s hair, pushing up and moving off of Bucky’s body. _

_ Bucky shouldn’t feel this cold.  _

_ “Steve, it’s alright, y’fine,” he tries to reassure Steve, who’s freaking out. That’s understandable, even if there was no chance anyone would’ve found them.   _

_ Bucky shouldn’t be hurting.  _

_ Steve just sighs and grabs his coat from where it’s laying on the floor. “M’goin’ out.” _

_ Bucky frowns. “It’s gonna be dark in a few hours, where’ve ya gotta go?” He knows, though. Steve just needs to get away.  _

_ Steve shrugs and pulls his coat on. He’s already out the door but Bucky still catches him mumbling under his breath. “Stupid, stupid, y’know he doesn’t - “ _

_ He doesn’t what? Bucky brings up his hands and covers his face, groaning. It’s not often like this - they touch all the time, and maybe it’s a little more than they should, but they’re basically brothers, right? It’s normal. It’s not like it’ll ever lead to anything else because neither of them want it to.  _

_ Right? _

When Bucky can see again, his eyes clear in time to see Steve slowing down and then speed-walking towards the trees. Bucky wonders if he should run again. He doesn’t, not when he catches the look on Steve’s face. 

He’s not looking at him, but his eyes are darting around wildly like he  _ is _ looking for something. His face is deathly pale, even a little green, and then he’s bending over and throwing up, torso convulting as he heaves. Bucky’s mouth is dry, head still spinning from the memory - which is frighteningly similar to what happened this morning. As Steve stops throwing up, he slumps and comes to rest in a sitting position. He’s got his back against a tree and his head in between his knees. His shoulders are shaking. 

Bucky moves forward, and finds himself kneeling in front of Steve before he can think. At a quick glance, he sees that Steve barely threw anything up - there’s just bile. Bucky clenches and unclenches his jaw and turns his attention back to Steve. 

“How’d ya find me?” Steve’s voice is hoarse.

Bucky stiffens at the slow Brooklyn drawl dripping off Steve’s words. “I didn’t. I was just walking and I saw you running.”

“Just running?” Steve rasps, looking up. His eyes are so, so blue. 

Bucky just lets his eyes flicker to the vomit and back again. Steve’s shoulders drop and he huffs out a sigh. “I’m fine, it doesn’t happen often - “

“Why’re you lying?” Bucky cuts him off, frowning at him. 

Steve snaps his mouth shut and just stares. Bucky stares back. When they remain silent for too long, Bucky figures out that Steve’s not going to answer that unless it’s with another lie - something stupid like ‘I’m not’, or ‘I’m fine’. Bucky wonders how long this has been going on, and why there was nothing in Steve’s stomach, and why he’s having nightmares every time he falls asleep and why he can’t talk about his feelings without breaking down. He wonders how much guilt and trauma he’s harboring, wonders if he can help. Because at this rate, neither of them are going to make it. It’s kind of shocking, really, that Steve’s so messed up. 

When he thinks about it, though, it’s kind of not. 

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky tries. 

Steve just nods, seemingly relieved that Bucky’s not pushing it. Bucky chews on his lip for a moment, then rolls off his knees and onto his backside, folding his legs criss-cross. “Back before the war, you fell asleep on me on the couch,” he starts, and he genuinely wants to know. He’s so done with not saying or doing things and regretting it later. “Why did you run away?” 

Steve’s gone pale again and he looks like he’s on the verge of throwing up. Again. Bucky frowns at him. “You...You remember that?” He’s stalling. 

Bucky just nods. Steve sucks in a big breath and closes his eyes, like he can’t look at Bucky. “‘Cause I was...Someone could have seen,” is his half-assed answer. 

“Bullshit,” Bucky snaps, and Steve’s eyes fly open. 

There’s shock swimming in the blue. “What?” he says, like he doesn’t know. 

“No one could’ve seen. We were in our apartment.” 

Steve frowns. “‘Cause...I shouldn’t’ve done it. It must’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“We were friends, Steve. Friends do that all the time.  _ I   _ was fine.” 

Steve’s chewing on his lip, not meeting Bucky’s eyes anymore. “What it insinuated - it wasn’t right, and I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry,” he’s back to spitting out words, eyes darting around, chest moving fast with how irregular his breathing has become. Worry blooms in Bucky’s chest. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up. Something sticks in his mind, though, and he frowns. 

“Steve...You know it’s legal now, right? It’s okay now, and even back then...I wouldn’t’ve made any sort of deal out of it,” Bucky tells him, and Steve’s reaction makes Bucky feel sick. How could he not have seen this back then? He was different now, he supposed. He saw everything from a different point of view.

Steve chokes and slams his palms flat on the ground, staring at Bucky’s knees. “I’m not,” he grits out, voice like iron. 

“Not what?” Fuck, Bucky’s chest aches. This  _ hurts.  _ He shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not like he’s stable enough to handle this. Steve’s probably not, either.  

“I’m  _ not.”  _ Steve snaps, and then his eyes flash back up to Bucky’s. “Why’re you doing this? You’re the one who was put through seventy years of torture, not me. Why does everyone think I’m not okay? I’m  _ fine. _ ”

“I’ve agreed to a psychoanalysis,” Bucky says. 

Steve frowns. “What?” 

“Steve, I  _ know  _ I’m not okay. I know my brain needs to heal, I know I need to talk about things to get me moving along that track. I know I need help. I’m just...I’m getting there. You? You haven’t even admitted to yourself that you’re not okay,” Bucky tells him, and it’s true. 

Bucky doesn’t want to needlessly hurt people anymore. He thinks that this is the main reason why he’s letting himself be so open about everything, be so accepting of what he’s become. For some reason, he’s dealing with it a lot better than Steve. At that thought, something cold settles into Bucky’s stomach. He heard about it before, he’s not sure where, it’s somewhere among the many jumbled half-formed memories, but he definitely knows about it. He swallows. Does Steve have survivors guilt? Fuck, he’s not qualified for this. He’s not even...Are they even still friends? Or are they just going off how they used to be? They’re shadows of their former selves, following their old footsteps and trying to be who they used to be together. It’s not gonna work. 

“Because I am _.  _ I am okay,” Steve snaps, and stands up. 

Bucky doesn’t have to look closely to see how hard he’s shaking. “I think you should talk to someone,” Bucky tries. 

“I think  _ you  _ should,” Steve shoots back.

Bucky freezes. He stands up in one fluid motion. “If you were okay, you wouldn’t be fighting it this hard.” His voice is dark, and he lets the Winter Soldier seep into it because he’s so done with Steve trying to make them believe he’s okay. He’s done with a lot of things, actually. Including having one arm, but that’s going to be fixed soon. 

Steve just shakes his head and looks down at the ground. Bucky goes to say something else, add fuel to the fire, but then he’s on his knees, grabbing the side of his head and sinking back into another memory. The last thing he sees is Steve kneeling in front of him, eyes wide and concerned, lips shaping around Bucky’s name. 

_ The cell’s cold. Everything’s cold. Fuck, he wishes he had some clothes. They took them, though. Took the rest of his arm, too. They’re working on taking his sanity, now. Fuck. He’s got his arm wrapped around himself, back pressed into a corner, eyes on the door. His bruises are healing quicker than they should. Every wound is, actually. He refuses to pay attention to it.  _

_ And he sure as hell doesn’t pay attention to the front cover of the newspaper that’s pinned to the wall to his left.  _

_ In what’s left of his mind, he’s on that train again, and this time, he doesn’t fall. He’s standing next to Steve, waiting for Stark’s plane to come get them. Zola’s in chains and everything’s under control. And he’s only got one thing to say. Something he’s been sure of since Zola. Maybe they did something to him or maybe being that close to death made him realise it.  _

_ “Stevie.” He mumbles, both in reality and in the scene in his mind. “I love ya.” _

_ And Steve says it back, cause it’s Bucky’s imagination, alright? He can see whatever he bloody wants to see. Fuck, he wishes he’d sucked up the courage to say it before he went and died. Maybe he wouldn’t regret so much. Maybe things could’ve been different. And, fuck, maybe he would’ve known how Steve’s lips felt against his.  _

_ He hears the door open but he forces himself to stay in the scene in his mind. He smiles, seeing their hands intertwined, because they did it. They‘re gonna keep going. Together.  _

_ He keeps the images going until they burn them out of him. _

Steve’s hands are on Bucky’s face. Is he wiping away tears? Bucky swallows, blinking away the memory. He focuses on Steve’s face and his heart shatters. God, they’re a mess. He stares into blue and sees the relief light up Steve’s face when he realises Bucky’s back. Bucky searches his eyes, can’t help but let his own eyes flick down to Steve’s lips. The memory is so fresh in his mind. He remembers now, all the times he’s imagined their faces this close. How many times has he thought about closing the gap?

He wants to do it now. 

The thought surprises him. Steve’s saying something, but the ringing in Bucky’s ears is too loud. Everything is too loud. He should be breaking down right now, he knows. It’s what he usually does. But all he can feel is Steve’s hands, warm, gripping his upper arms. All he can see is Steve’s face, forehead creased with worry and eyes swimming with terror. Bucky knows his face is blank but his skin is buzzing with all the new information.

The feeling never went away. 

He’s been given a second chance, he knows. He’s got a long way to go but he fought tooth and nail to get to where he is now. He clawed the pieces of his mind together, found Steve - well, Steve sort of found him - and he’s got a place to stay. He’s got a future. He’s got help, when he’s ready for it. And...he could have Steve. 

If Steve wants him.

And judging by the conversation they just had, he might not. Bucky does it any way. 

He surges forward but keeps it soft. He sucks in a breath against Steve’s lips, feels Steve go still as he kisses him the way he’s only ever kissed a dame. Steve doesn’t respond, and they are just resting their lips against each other, but Bucky’s flooded with  _ fire,  _ all the ice burned out of him. He pulls back and searches Steve’s eyes again. 

Steve’s frozen, staring at Bucky like he can’t believe what just happened. Bucky can’t believe it either, but he still feels warm. He knows what it’s like now. He doesn’t regret it. But. It wasn’t just to try it out. He wants to do it again. He doesn’t give in to the want, though. Bucky licks his lips when the silence goes on too long and he doesn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes follow the movement. 

“I wanted to tell you something, after I fell from the train,” he admits. “I  want to tell you now.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He moves, though. He stands up and rakes a hand through his hair, pulling on the ends. He casts a desperate look around them and then huffs out a wet laugh, like he’s gonna start crying. Bucky swallows. His legs feel weak. 

“I’m sorry,” is all Steve whispers. And then he’s gone.

  
He’s gone. Bucky stays there till he feels cold - it never used to bother him - and then he runs. He sticks to alleys and back roads and rooftops. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> internalised homophobia :( and also Steve being a stubborn prick about not being okay. Or just being a stubborn prick in general.


	12. Chapter Eleven

The Tower feels cold when Steve gets back. Maybe that’s just him. Fuck, how did Bucky  _ see  _ so much? He remembers so much, maybe all of it. The thought kind of terrifies Steve the same way it excites him. He thought that maybe they could try be friends again, work up to how they used to be. They’re already past that. He was foolish to think it’d be the same. They’ve been thrown together and now they’re learning each other all over again.

But that, coupled with years and years of memories of how they used to be, is jumbling everything up. Yeah, yeah that’s gotta be it. Why else would Bucky ever…? 

He shakes the thought away. It comes straight back, like a boomerang. Hits him in the head, leaves him reeling. Fuck, he’d enjoyed it - the feel of rough lips on his, the warm closeness that was Bucky. And he feels so _guilty,_ because surely Bucky hadn’t really wanted to do that. Steve spent his entire life suppressing that part of him - because it is there. It was. And fuck. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

He walks through the Tower, heading straight for his floor, trying to ignore the tugging of his heart. He feels horrible - he can’t believe he even let Bucky kiss him. He just. He  _ wanted  _ it. The bitter acrid taste rises back up his throat but he’s got nothing to puke up. He saw Bucky leaning in, had time to stop it. He didn’t. Couldn’t?

It’d been so soft. 

He’d imagined it over and over, agonising over it in his teenage days. Forced every image out of his head since then. He couldn’t afford to let them distract him from being Bucky’s friend, not even now.  _ Especially  _ now, because Bucky needs him more than ever. 

He pushes his door open, walking in and heading straight to his room. He avoids the living room, avoids even thinking about that morning. Of course, it doesn’t really work. He walks into his room.

Sam’s sitting on his bed. 

He’s too tired to question it, just keeps walking and plops down onto the mattress. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him but he ignores him for a little longer. He’s tired. He is so, so tired. He just wants to sleep, okay? He wants to close his eyes and see nothing. No ice, no war, no memories. No dreams. Nothing. He just wants to  _ sleep. _

“Steve, we need to talk.”

Steve opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. His chest feels heavy. He makes a noncommittal noise. “We were going to have an intervention, but then it was decided it’d be better if just one of us tried to talk some sense into you,” Sam continues. 

Steve makes the sound again. When he moves his eyes to look at Sam, his friend - Sam’s his friend and he’s been neglecting him, he’s such a shit friend - is just looking down at him with his kind eyes, no judgement at all. Steve knows he wants to help, knows he means no harm. He sighs anyway and rolls away from Sam, shoving his face into a pillow.

<>

Sam’s a very good friend. He knows this. He just wishes Steve would let him be a very good friend, all the time. He’d been nominated to go talk to Steve because he’s such a good friend. He’d wanted to do it anyway, because he knows he’s probably the best person to do it. Because he knows Steve seriously needs it and he’s not sure everyone else gets that. 

“So, everyone wrote notes, but this is kind of serious so I’m ignoring them,” Sam starts, but then Steve starts crying. 

Sam just stares at his friend’s shaking back, bewildered, and reaches out a hand to rest it on Steve’s shoulder. Steve doesn’t flinch, exactly, but he pulls away from the touch like it’s burning him. He sits up, face still buried in the pillow, and pulls his knees in to his chest. Sam studies him helplessly for a moment and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do. Steve’s breath hitches and then he tenses all over, like he’s forcing his emotions down so he’ll stop crying. 

He lowers the pillow and his face is already blotchy, but he’s not crying anymore. He clears his throat and raises a fucking eyebrow like that hadn’t just happened. “So what’s wrong with me this time?” he asks. 

Sam’s face falls and he watches the frustration well up on Steve’s. Sam doesn’t even know what to say. Steve drags his eyes from his and settles them on the open door. “Bucky’s gone again. Might want to tell Nat,” he mutters. Then grimaces, like he regrets it. He’s being bitter, angry, and too much of an asshole. Sam gets it. 

“I get that you’re angry man, but you’ve got to know that there’s a _reason_ for that,” he starts. Sam’s just trying to help _._ And Steve’s gonna accept that, goddamnit. “Soldiers who come back from the wars - any of them - quite often suffer from ptsd. You know what that is, Steve?” Sam’s voice has taken on a no-nonsense tone.

“Yes. And I know enough to know that I don’t have it,” Steve replies, turning to let his gaze cut into Sam’s again. 

Sam huffs out a tired breath. “Steve, I’m not trying to push you to talk about it. I just want you to think about yourself for a second. Think about everything you’re feeling and seriously compare it to someone like - did you call him Bucky?” Sam suddenly questions, catching onto Steve’s previous words.

“Sam. Did you just ask me to compare my situation to Bucky’s?” Steve grits out, steel in his voice. 

Sam’s heart thuds in his chest as he realises how Steve must have taken his words. “No, no, that’s not what I meant! Steve, you’re in a seriously dark place right now. I just want you to think about talking to someone.” He tries to save the conversation, but Steve’s already shaking his head. 

“I can’t,” he says.

Sam blink in surprise. He didn’t expect that. “What do you mean?” Sam asks. 

Steve shrugs and his shoulders drop, like the fight’s gone out of him. He’s been fighting for  _ so long.  _ “I have to be alright for Bucky. I can’t afford to let everything catch up to me,” he sighs. Sam feels something leap in his chest. Because this is the first step. He can see Steve opening up, but he can also see he’s walking on a wire right now and he has to be careful. And then he just has to be a friend. 

Sam shuffles up the bed and comes to sit beside Steve, who just looks at him with tired eyes. Sam smiles and throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into his side. It’s a bit awkward, what with how gigantic Steve is, but it works. He feels Steve relax, feels him breathe out all the pent up tension. “I’m not trying to push you, Steve, but you’ve already admitted it once. Next step is realising how not alright you are,” he feels Steve tense up again, so he rushes to finish, “in your own time. Trust me, it’ll help James too.”

Steve relaxes again, and nods. Sam breathes out a sigh of relief and slumps back against the headboard, pulling Steve with him. Steve hums out a noise of contentment and Sam would love to just sit in this nice little bubble they’ve created, but Steve brought it up and he has to ask.

“How come James’ gone again?”

Steve sighs, body still lax. He stays silent, doesn’t answer. The question wants to come out of Sam’s mouth again, but he bites it back down, deciding not to push it. There’s been enough pushing. He instead raises a hand to Steve’s head and threads his fingers through his hair, scritching his nails over Steve’s scalp. Steve seems to relax even further, slumping right into Sam and humming in contentment. Sam smiles and rests his head back, letting it bump against the wall. He closes his eyes and keeps moving his fingers through Steve’s hair. He wants to ask about this morning, why Steve freaked out so much, but there’s a heavy feeling in his gut that says he already knows the answer. He’s not sure he’s brave enough to bring it up. 

*

By the time Steve gets too restless to stay put any longer, Sam’s legs have gone numb from Steve’s weight. He can’t bring himself to say anything, not when Steve looks so peaceful. When Steve finally sits up, he blinks sleep out of his eyes and turns to shoot Sam an apologetic look. Sam just waves it away, heart leaping at how well-rested Steve looks. He guesses that Steve hasn’t slept this peacefully in a while. 

“Sleep good?” Sam asks, just to make sure, because even though Steve slept like the dead, it doesn’t necessarily mean his mind was quiet. 

Steve just smiles and nods, moves to get off the bed. “Thanks for putting up with me, Sam,” he mumbles, eyes so sincere it throws Sam off a bit. 

“It’s fine, Steve, trust me,” he replies, and Steve gestures towards the ensuite. 

Sam heads to the kitchen while Steve showers and pulls out the blender. He searches through the pantry and fridge, trying to find the ingredients he has in mind, and huffs when he only comes up with some of them. He decides to make the smoothie anyway, because Steve probably won’t remember to feed himself until his stomach starts growling. 

Sam turns to grab the chopping board and jumps about half a foot when he sees James standing there, eyes following every one of Sam’s movements. Sam stills and swallows nervously. He’s seen the Winter Soldier in battle, seen the broken man on the floor of Tony’s lobby, seen James around the Tower, and he thinks he saw Bucky this morning. He hasn’t seen the asset before. 

A shiver runs through him as he realises that this. This is the asset.

James tilts his head to one side, simply observing Sam. Sam thinks he’s assessing him as a threat, so he tries to look as small as possible. Fuck. James doesn’t move, just stays staring at Sam, like he’s waiting for something. Sam clears his throat and moves slowly, putting all the ingredients on the counter beside the blender. James doesn’t react to the actions, just tracks them with his eyes. He looks carefully blank, eyes slightly hazy.

“James?” Sam tries. He gets no reaction, not even a blink. “Bucky?” He tries that one next, and a small shadow passes over James’ face before he’s blank again. Something feels like it’s lodged in Sam’s throat. He feels slightly sick. “Asset?” he manages to get out. 

James blinks. Sam’s shoulders drop and pure fear races through him. Not fear of James, Sam doesn’t think he’s going to harm him. Fear  _ for  _ James. And for Steve. For what this’ll do to them. James had seemed to be doing really well, in a stable mindset. Sam wonders what set this off. 

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, because he’s so, so out of his depth here. 

James frowns. Sam would be relieved at the emotion if it weren’t for James’ next words. “Ready to comply.” He sounds like a machine. Sam’s going to throw up. 

“ _ What?”  _ He breathes out, hands coming up to grip at the bench. 

James frowns harder. “What are the mission parameters?” he tries, looking ever-patient, like he’s dealing with a child, or someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. And Sam  _ doesn’t _ .

Sam just waves his hands around, because he can’t really deal with this. He’s tired, okay? He’s really quite tired. That’s when Steve comes out, all fresh-faced and warm, and he’s smiling. As soon as he sees James the smile slides off his face. James twists immediately, boots making zero sound as he moves his body so he’s facing the both of them, his back to the empty lounge room. Sam can see it as Steve swallows, eyes going slightly wild. 

“What are the mission parameters?” James asks again, like he’s hoping Steve knows. 

Steve does know, apparently. His face goes all tired, like all the energy has just been wiped out again, the light flickering out in his eyes. He holds out his hand. “C’mere, Buck,” he sighs. 

James goes to him, face calm now that he’s gotten an order. Sam watches as Steve leads James to the lounge, where the sun’s shining in through the floor to ceiling windows. Steve sits down and says something to James that Sam can’t make out. James slides to the ground eventually too, and they sit there together, shoulder to shoulder, facing the city in front of them. Sam manages to slide away quietly, though he has no doubt they know he’s gone. 

<>

Hours pass. Thoughts fly in and out of Steve’s head, but none of them really stay. They’re lying down now, shoulders still touching. Bucky hasn’t closed his eyes, but they’re slightly clearer. He’s staring up at the ceiling, his face soft. He’s soaking up the sun, and Steve wants so badly to roll over and run his fingers through Bucky’s hair, like Sam did to him. 

God, Sam. Steve sighs at the thought of his friend, and thinks that when this is all over, he’s going to get Sam a gift basket. Maybe...Maybe he’ll even draw him something. The thought makes Steve go warm and his eyes drift away from where they’re pinned to Bucky’s face. They lay there, the minutes ticking by. It’s calm. 

“Steve?” 

Steve’s eyes refocus on Bucky’s face. He’s moved his head so his face is facing Steve’s too. He looks slightly confused, but blinks it away. “What’d I do?” he sounds so quiet, so scared, that Steve’s almost scrambling to reassure him. 

“Nothing, Buck, you came back to the Tower and asked…” Steve pauses, thinking of the amount of time Bucky hadn’t been accounted for. He ignores the reason why. He pushes the next words out, a bitter taste in his mouth. “You asked what the mission parameters were,” he finishes. 

Bucky just nods and searches Steve’s eyes for a moment. “What were they?” he asks, and Steve didn’t expect that. 

“Uh, I didn’t give you any,” Steve answers him, truthfully. 

Bucky shakes his head, a small smile threatening to break through his otherwise perfectly composed face. “You did,” he pushes. The smile breaks out over his face like a tiny wave full of light. Steve feels his breath catch and can’t think to hate himself for it. “You said c’mere, and then you told me to come back to you,” he supplies, like it’s Steve’s memory that’s faulty. “You said, come back to me, Buck,” Bucky says again.

Steve licks his lips, which are suddenly very dry. So is his throat, actually. “They weren’t orders,” he tries. 

Bucky shrugs, as well as he can on the ground and with one arm. “May as well have been,” he hums, before turning his face back to the ceiling. 

Steve does the same, like he’s been released by a spell. He’s been thinking a lot, in the shower and in Sam’s arms. About what happened between them. Maybe he’s not so straight. And...Maybe that’s not a bad thing? He’ll work on it. Bucky, on the other hand. Maybe it’s just Bucky. Maybe Steve’s just Bucky’s. Maybe he always has been. Of course, this was always as a  _ friend,  _ but now...Everything’s changed. They’re not the same people. He just has to check…

“Buck?” he asks, voice croaky.

Bucky’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t turn to him. He looks peaceful, eyelids a different colour in the sun. Steve studies his features until he realises Bucky’s hummed in question. Steve sighs and turns away. “In the park…” he tries to say it. He really does. 

Bucky opens his eyes then, and looks at him. He seems panicked. “Steve, I’m so sorry - I just, I wasn’t thinking, and I - “

Steve frowns at him and Bucky closes his mouth, looking sad. Steve closes his eyes, unable to look at him while he says it. “Did you want to do it? Or was it something else?” he mumbles. 

“What do you mean?” Bucky whispers, something unidentifiable in his voice. 

“Did you kiss me because you felt like that was what I wanted? Or because  _ you  _ wanted to?” Steve clarifies, and opens his eyes. 

Bucky looks pale, eyes bluer than Steve’s ever seen them. It takes a while for Bucky to reply, and when he does, Steve doesn’t feel so cold anymore. He feels warmer than he has felt in a while.

“Because I really, really wanted to, Steve,” Bucky hums, and he tries to catch Steve’s eyes with his own. He looks searching, like he’s trying to gauge Steve’s reaction before it even happens. He looks like he’s fighting the urge to run. “I think I’ve wanted to for a while,” he adds. 

Steve bites his lip, heart in his throat. Bucky’s eyes are penetrating, so familiar yet so foreign it makes Steve want to learn him all over again. “Can we...Could we do it again sometime?” he asks, voice only a breathy whisper. 

Bucky smiles. “Now?” he murmurs.

Steve thinks about it and then shakes his head slowly, a little terrified. “N-No, I, um,”

“It’s alright, Steve,” Bucky promises, and how did this even happen? Bucky reaches out his right hand, knocking it against Steve’s fist. Steve jumps a bit, but then he opens his hand. Bucky threads his fingers through Steve’s and Steve manages a wobbly smile. 

“Thanks,” he whispers.

Bucky just nods and turns his eyes back to the ceiling. “We’ll heal together, okay, Stevie?”

  
Steve wants to protest, but he can’t. He has nothing to protest. “Yeah, Buck,” he says instead, heart lighter than it has been in a very, very long time. 


	13. Chapter Twelve

This time, they knock on the door before coming in. Steve’s on his feet, hand sliding out of Bucky’s before he thinks about it. Bucky simply rolls over and picks himself up off the ground like it takes the greatest effort. He looks disgruntled, almost offended even, and then they enter the room. It’s Natasha and someone Steve’s never seen before. He casts a glance at Bucky, who’s just watching the newcomers with sharp eyes. 

“James, Steve, this is Johanna Talis. She’s going to be carrying out James’ psychoanalysis,” Natasha announces, her eyes tracking their facial expressions. 

Steve lets his eyes slide to Johanna, watching as she smiles at Bucky. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky’s face remains impassive and blank. “Normally, we wouldn’t do this in your home, but we figured it’d be easier for you, considering you’ve already checked the apartment for bugs. We figured you’ll be more comfortable here,” Natasha continues. 

Steve looks at Bucky. When did he manage to do that? Probably when Steve was asleep. Bucky nods at Natasha, then turns his attention back to Johanna, who gestures to the couch. “Would you like to start now? ” she asks. “I’m sure you’d like to get this over with.”

Bucky just nods again, and glances at Steve, a question in his eyes. Johanna answers it for him. “Both Miss Romanoff and Mr Rogers will be required to leave the apartment for the duration of the psychoanalysis,” she informs them. Steve searches Bucky’s eyes to make sure he’s okay with that. 

Bucky nods. Steve and Natasha leave the apartment together, even when everything inside of Steve is begging him to stay with Bucky. 

<>

“Is here on the couch fine?” Johanna asks, already drifting towards the lounge. 

Bucky likes the couch. He nods and sits down across from her. “Why are you trusting me enough to be alone with me?” he begins, and she laughs. He didn’t expect that. 

“I’m here to ask  _ you  _ questions, not the other way around,” she tells him, and settles her light brown eyes on him. They’re serious and analyzing, but still kind. Bucky likes them. “First of all, I’ve gathered that you prefer to be called James?” she begins.

Bucky shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Some people call me James, others call me Sergeant Barnes. I’ve had people call me the Winter Soldier or the asset. Steve calls me Bucky. There are other names too,” he tells her. She’s very easy to talk to. He wonders why.

Johanna nods, tilting her head to one side slightly. The movement is familiar - he does that too. “What would you like me to call you?” 

Bucky frowns, really thinks about it. “I like Bucky,” he decides. 

She smiles and shifts on the couch, putting her elbow on the armrest. “Any particular reason why?” 

He tries not to get irritated; he knows he’s agreed to this. He knew it was going to be annoying, with the most seemingly pointless questions. He sighs. “It’s mine,” he mutters. 

Johanna looks like she’s dying to write that down. “So you’ve taken a claim to the name? Is there anything else you consider to be yours?” is her next question.

He thinks of his notebook, thinks of his body. His mind. Even his room and the arm they took from him. He’s still a little mad about that, actually. There’s not much to consider his, he finds. But then again, it’s a lot more than he had a week ago. “A few things,” he supplies. She looks like she’s going to push it and ask exactly what, so he butts in and tells her. “My notebook, my body, my mind. The room Steve gave me and my arm. But they took that, so it’s not really mine anymore. Tony has it.” 

Johanna nods and Bucky waits for the next question. “Alright, now we’re going to get into the hard-hitting stuff, okay? Some of the questions could possibly be triggering for you, are you prepared for that?” 

Bucky just nods, already tired. He’s still sun-drowsy and he just wants to lie back down on the floor with Steve. Hell, they’d been doing so good. His stomach turns over, in the good way, when he thinks of Steve again. It’s sort of pathetic, but that’s another thing he owns - his emotions. He’ll be in hell again before he lets himself suppress them. He’s so done with doing that.

“Why did you leave Hydra?” she asks, and oh shit, she really did mean hard-hitting. 

Bucky swallows. “I...I didn’t, exactly,” he says. She just frowns. He sighs before continuing. “I never  _ joined  _ Hydra. There was no initiation or choice, I just simply became a weapon for Hydra to use. I never left, because I never joined. I just simply got my mind back,” he tries to explain, and he can see the understanding bloom on Johanna’s face. 

“So they took  _ you  _ out and left a weapon for them to use?” she clarifies, and he nods, relieved. “And how did you manage to ‘get your mind back’, as you put it?” she asks.  

“Steve. He started it, jolted me back into control, and then I just spent a long time thinking and trying to pull the pieces of myself together,” he replies. 

She nods. “And do you consider all the pieces back together now?” 

“More or less.”

“Can you explain that further?” 

“Well, I’m not Bucky Barnes, exactly. Not the old me. I’ve changed a lot - I might not have been in control for seventy years, but I sure as hell was present. So the pieces are just...There’s more of them now. But they all fit,” he says. He wonders when the hell he got this metaphorical. 

Johanna smiles. “Do you consider yourself to be sound of mind?” she moves on.

He clenches his jaw while he thinks about that. “I...Yes. I’m in control.” He remembers the slip back into the asset yesterday the moment the words leave his mouth. He decides not to mention it. He didn’t hurt anyone, so it doesn’t count. 

“Is there anything that could interfere with that control?” she asks. 

He shifts uncomfortably. “In theory, yes, but only because I...There might be sleeper triggers. I don’t know if they work anymore. No one’s tried them. Most people who knew them are dead.” 

She purses her lips. “Would you be willing to test whether they are still active?” 

He freezes, eyes going wide. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. “I - what? No, what if they work, what if I hurt someone - I can’t. Fuck, please don’t make me hurt anyone,” he’s panicking, losing control over the situation, but that’s better than being forced to lose control over himself _. _

“Bucky, I’m not going to force you to do anything, especially if you think someone could get hurt,” Johanna reassures him, looking worried. 

He takes a deep breath and tries to calm his suddenly erratic heart. He closes his eyes, counts back from twenty in Russian in his head. Does the same in German, then Mandarin. When he’s calmed down, he looks up to meet Johanna’s concerned gaze. “Does that happen often?” she asks.

He shrugs helplessly, slumping back into the couch. “Yeah,” he admits, eyes skittering away from hers. 

“What triggered this one?” 

He wonders if she’s serious, then remembers that everything about this is serious. There’s always a double meaning. “I don’t want to hurt people that don’t deserve it. And if someone used a trigger word and it  _ worked,  _ then I could do that,” he explains slowly. 

She nods. “What calmed you down?” 

“I counted backwards from twenty,” he mumbles. 

“Does that always work?” 

“No, not always. But that wasn’t a very big...panic,” he re-settles into the couch, eyes drifting to a piece of art on the wall. It’s hideous. There’s no way Steve picked it. 

“What usually calms you down then?” Johanna’s voice snaps his attention back to her. 

He shrugs. “Running? Walking - anything to get away from the place it happened. I’m not always, uh,  _ stable  _ when I’m in that state.”

“Can you explain that further?” He pretty much expected that one. 

“I’ve hurt myself during a panic - not on purpose,” he thinks about mentioning the three men he killed when they took his notebook. He decides against it. There are some things Johanna doesn’t need to know. 

“Do you think hurting yourself is a way to break out of the panic attacks?” Johanna asks, voice all soft but still professional. 

Bucky observes her for a long moment, eyes narrowed. “No. I think it happens because I’m trying to defend myself and I end up getting hurt along the way,” he says, voice cold. 

She just blinks and then nods. “Well, Bucky. I think I can clear you as on our side. You are no longer a prisoner here, but you are welcome to stay,” she announces. 

He nearly laughs at the prisoner part, because when have they ever tried to stop him from getting out? It was probably just a title to make them feel in control. He nods, just a slight movement of his head, and stands up. Johanna stands with him, movements a lot less fluid. “I think you should continue to see someone - me or someone else, because although you are in control, you still have a lot of things going on,” she suggests. “You should think about looking into those triggers, too.”

“I’ll think about it,” he tells her. 

She smiles and he smiles back, because he wants to. She’s nice. When he shows her out of the apartment, she waves at him before disappearing into the elevator. He shuts the door and returns to the lounge. He frowns at the couch, and flops back on to the floor to soak up the last of the sun. He waits for Steve to get back. 

*

“So you passed?” Steve asks, barrelling into the lounge with a smile on his face. 

Bucky looks up, squinting at him. “What?” he rasps, because he’d been dozing, thank you very much. 

Steve sits down beside him, still smiling, and his expression is soft. “Natasha said you’re all cleared now,” he clarifies. 

Bucky nods, humming as Steve reaches over and runs his fingers through his hair. “Why’re you in such a good mood?” he hums, leaning into the pressure a bit. 

Steve stays silent for a little while, and Bucky starts to think he hadn’t heard him, but then - “I talked to Sam. And Natasha. About seeing someone.” He settles down so he’s laying on the floor above Bucky’s head, fingers still in his hair. 

“That’s good, Steve. Johanna thinks I should see someone too,” he sighs out. 

Steve goes silent again. When he eventually speaks, his voice is full of indecision. “I still don’t believe there’s so much wrong with me that I have to  _ see  _ someone about it.” 

Bucky strains to look at him, frowning. “There’s nothing  _ wrong  _ with you, Steve. You’re looking at it the wrong way. This shit - the nightmares, the flashbacks, all that - they’re not flaws _.  _ They’re just leftover crap from things that’ve happened. And you can heal from that stuff. That’s what I’m doing, cause I know I  _ can.”  _

Steve’s looking at him with unreadable eyes, nibbling on his bottom lip. “But I haven’t been through nearly as much as you,” he whispers. 

Bucky rolls his eyes and looks away. “Stop comparing your shit to mine, Stevie. It’s different. Just cause I was tortured for seventy years doesn’t mean that your shit is any less damaging than mine,” his voice is exasperated. 

He can still feel Steve’s gaze, but he ignores it in favor of the fingers in his hair. He waits for Steve to speak next, too content in the sun to bother contributing to conversation. 

“Are you going to see someone?” Steve eventually asks. 

“Are you?” Bucky shoots back. 

“I think so,” Steve says. 

“Me too.” 

They lie there in silence, a thousand thoughts going through their heads. Bucky speaks first, and his tongue is thick when he does. His throat wants to close up around the words and never, ever let them out. 

“Stevie, can you do something for me?” he asks.

“Anything, Buck,” Steve replies without hesitation. 

Bucky swallows, but the words come out anyway. “I want you to say something for me,” he says, voice a little high-pitched. He clears his throat and says the command.

> каблук

Steve doesn’t repeat the word. Bucky groans, frustrated. “ _ Say  _ it, Steve,” he prompts. 

“What does it mean?” Steve asks, his voice laced with worry. 

“Just say it.” Bucky needs him to, before he loses his nerve. This is the safest one. Maybe the most humiliating, but the safest. Steve says it, even if his pronunciation is a little off. 

> каблук

Bucky does exactly what he feared he would. He moves like a river, fluid and uncontrollable, to come and kneel in front of Steve. His head is bowed, shoulders hunched forwards, and his hand is behind his back. As soon as he’s in the position, he shudders out of the command and breaks, body slumping as he lays back down on the floor.  

“F-Fuck, I th-thought they’d be g _ -gone, _ ” he chokes out. Steve sits up, eyes wide with panic. 

“Bucky, what was that? What’d I say?” he says in a rush, voice climbing higher.

Bucky shakes his head, dropping his head into his palm. His shoulders are shaking, but he can’t let himself cry. He’s terrified _.  _ “T-The sleeper commands. They still work,” he whispers, voice breaking. 

“What did I say?” Steve whispers. 

“ _ Heel. _ ”

Steve stands up and Bucky follows him with his eyes, despair shining through in the form of unshed tears. Steve stumbles to the kitchen and throws up in the sink. Bucky sobs and curls in on himself on the floor, feeling disgusting. Fuck, he’s nowhere near as in control as he thought. And now Steve can’t even... 

Steve comes back.

What? 

Steve places a warm palm on Bucky’s right shoulder and slides it down his bicep to curl around his elbow. “Bucky?” he whispers.

Bucky doesn’t look up. He  _ can’t.  _

“Buck, please,” Steve begs.

Bucky looks up. Steve’s eyes are shiny and he smells like vomit, but Bucky barely notices it. He swallows and sits up. Steve’s hand stays on him, loose enough that Bucky could easily pull away if he wanted to. He leans in instead, slow enough to give Steve time to evade the movement. He doesn’t. He wraps his arms around Bucky instead. 

“You said we’d get better together, right? You mean that?” Steve asks. 

Bucky nods against his chest. 

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, and tucks Bucky’s head under his chin. 

  
Bucky is not very fond of this lounge. 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

They fall asleep eventually. Neither of them had been taking any notice of how much or how little sleep they’d been getting, but apparently they’re exhausted enough that they both curl in on each other and pass out on the floor. It’s probably the most uneventful sleep both of them have had in a very, very long time. 

Bucky wakes up first. 

Steve’s got his arms around him, and he tenses as the restriction at first, but he settles back down as soon as he feels the warmth pressed to his back. He can feel Steve’s breath snuffling against the back of his head, and can tell by the twitches of the muscles in Steve’s arms that he’s dreaming. The rest of his body is lax, so Bucky can only hope that it’s a good dream. 

He keeps his breathing even, drifting back into the in-between. The sun has started to rise again, so he assumes they’ve slept through the night. He can see it sparkling behind his eyelids - he observes the veins running like rivers through the skin with interest. The room is warm, and so are they. The heating must have been turned up by the AI or something. It’s...peaceful. 

The sun climbs higher, casting yellow light over their bodies. Bucky keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the weightless feel of the morning. It feels fresh. Eventually, Steve stirs from where he’s curled into him, and Bucky wonders if the tranquility will stay. Steve wakes up slowly, a low hum coming from his throat before it breaks off into a yawn, breath ruffing Bucky’s hair. He tenses, arms letting go of Bucky’s waist, but as soon as Bucky starts to worry, Steve wraps them back around him. He’d just been stretching. Steve shuffles his head closer and huffs a hot breath over Bucky’s neck.

Bucky shivers and turns his head slightly so he can catch Steve’s eyes. They’re bright blue, bluer than the morning sky, and filled with mirth. 

Yeah, it’s a good morning. 

Bucky feels the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, and Steve grins back at him, face extremely close. Bucky doesn’t take advantage of the closeness, just enjoys the easy-going feeling. He hums and blinks real slow, feeling his eyelashes dust over his cheekbones. Steve’s still here. 

Steve closes his eyes, still smiling softly, and rolls his head so he faces the ceiling. Then he rolls back, like their faces are magnets, and nudges his nose against Bucky’s. Bucky wrinkles his nose, a grin sliding over his face like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The way Steve’s eyes light up like the morning sun sliding over the horizon behind them makes Bucky’s heart fly right up there. 

Steve hovers closer, bringing his lips a mere breadth from Bucky’s and blinks in question. Bucky just crinkles his eyes. Steve knocks their lips together, sighing at the feeling of skin on skin, and Bucky barely holds back the pleased keen that wants to force its way out of his throat. Their lips move against each other almost of their own accord, and it’s the happiest Bucky’s ever been, he’s sure. 

He likes the lounge.

They get up eventually, pulling each other from the ground and walking hand-in-hand to their respective rooms. Steve pouts at the separation, but Bucky presses a soft kiss to Steve’s shoulder, and he softens right back up. They shower slowly, neither of them feeling any need to rush. They both know they’ll be there when they’re done. 

When they’re clean and dried and dressed, they meet back in the lounge and settle on the couch, bare feet nudging at each other’s legs until they simply tangle their legs together in order to both fit they way they like to - legs up and back against the armrest. Steve’s got a sketchpad on the coffee table, along with a pencil, but he doesn’t touch them. Bucky wonders why, but he doesn’t want to ask. Today is for calm. 

Steve reads a book instead, fully invested in the story, and Bucky’s content enough to simply sit and watch him. 

Their bubble stretches around them, shifting to accommodate the addition of another person. Sam walks into the apartment, the look on his face saying that he has no idea what to expect. When he sees the scene on the couch - Steve engrossed in his book, looking calm and showered and happy and  _ rested,  _ he softens right along with them. He fits into their bubble. He turns his attention to Bucky next, heart rising in his throat as he sees him completely relaxed on the other end of the couch, head slightly turned so he can keep an eye on Sam while still watching Steve. His hair’s soft and shiny, freshly washed, and he looks just as warm and content as Steve. 

Sam feels like a proud parent. 

He drifts to the kitchen, movements as quiet as possible. Bucky and Steve have immediately accepted him into their little happy bubble, and he feels like he’s going to implode with the amount of  _ good  _ coursing through him right now. Instead of imploding, he goes about making chocolate biscuits as quietly as possible, humming softly under his breath.

The only sounds are Sam’s quiet humming, the biscuit-making, and Steve turning pages every now and then. No one talks. No one needs to. It’s tranquil.

Natasha comes in next. The frown that always seems to hover on her face threatens to pop the bubble, but as soon as she steps foot in the lounge it’s like every pinch of darkness in her drops away. Her whole face softens and her shoulders drop their constant tensed posture. She glances at Sam, who smiles at her, and she twitches her lips back at him. Bucky glances at her and raises an eyebrow, an exact imitation of how she does it. 

She copies him right back and walks silently across the soft carpet to come and sit at the base of the couch, right beside Bucky. She kicks her shoes off and digs her toes into the carpet. The sun warms her shoulders and she lets her eyes drift shut. Steve turns another page. 

By the time the biscuits are ready, their bubble has begun to drift away, leaving behind the calm and warmth. The perpetual silence that held its grip over the room falls away, and Steve shuts his book, setting it on the coffee table next to his untouched sketchpad. Natasha gets up first, knees cracking, and wanders over to the counter, leaving her shoes behind. The sun’s at its highest point in the sky right now, no longer shining in through the window. It doesn’t matter. They feel light anyway. Bucky moves last, standing up and offering his hand to Steve, who smiles and simply links his pinkie finger with Bucky’s. 

They walk over to join Sam and Natasha at the bench, and take seats beside each other. Natasha doesn’t sit down, but she rolls up and down on the balls of her feet as she watches Sam check and see if the biscuits are cool enough to eat. He nods to himself, letting the satisfied grin slide back over his face when Steve catches his eye. They smile at each other and then everyone helps themselves to a cookie.

The only sound is crunching and chewing and pleased groans. Bucky stares at the biscuit with slightly glazed grey-blue eyes, smiling, and then shoves the rest of it in his mouth. Steve giggles when he sees it and raises his hand - the one that’s not linked with Bucky’s - to brush away the crumbs left on Bucky’s lips and chin. Bucky grins with his mouth full and Steve rolls his eyes, all of the fondness shining through. 

Sam and Natasha don’t say a thing. They share a glance, though. They both know. 

All of the cookies get eaten. Sam feels pride well inside of him, satisfied that he fed these people and they  _ enjoyed  _ it. Even Bucky had his fair share. Bucky’s also the first one to speak.

“Do we have any plums?” he asks, voice a little scratchy from disuse, and Steve crinkle-eyes at him. 

Sam looks at the fruit bowl behind him, and when there’s none there, he checks the fridge. He feels disappointed that there’s none there, either, but then he pulls out his phone and texts someone. Bucky doesn’t seem bothered that there’s no plums, he simply moves, pulling Steve with him, and they start on the dishes. Natasha watches them with more fondness than Sam’s seen her express before. 

Their not-bubble welcomes a newcomer, who walks into the kitchen with a massive smile on his face and bag in his hand. “I come bearing plums,” Tony announces. Bucky spins around from where he was trying to dry a plate with a patient, exasperated look on his face as it keeps sliding away on the counter, till he traps it against the wall. Steve’s grinning _.  _

Bucky drops the tea towel and walks over to Tony, eyes wide like he told him he’s won the lottery. Tony waves the plums at him and Bucky fucking  _ beams.  _ He sets them on the counter and grabs the fruit bowl. He puts them in one by one, then observes them all. He picks the best looking one and sinks his teeth into it, a trail of juice trickling down his chin. He looks pleased. He grins around a mouthful of plum, and who taught this man manners?

Tony settles down at the kitchen island, for once gauging the mood of the room and seeming content to stay silent. Bucky pauses and nudges Steve, who blinks at him. Sam watches almost in bewilderment as they have a silent conversation. Steve sighs and walks over to the other side of the counter, away from the sink, and pulls open a hidden draw he’d been sitting in front of. He takes out two biscuits - the sneak - and hands them to Bucky. Bucky grins at him and leans up on his toes a little to press a kiss to Steve’s jaw line. 

Steve goes bright red. 

No one reacts. Bucky walks over to Tony and presents the biscuits to him, a grin on his face still. He’s got plum skin in his teeth. No one mentions it. Tony looks slightly bewildered, but he takes the biscuits and bites into one, eyes going a bit wide as he tastes how fresh they are. At his confused look, Bucky just points at Sam, who shrugs. 

It’s good. 

Conversation eventually weaves its way into the atmosphere, Bucky and Tony off to the side eating biscuits and plums and discussing Bucky’s new arm - which is nearly ready. Natasha is leaning against the counter, finishing drying the dishes and chatting with Steve about a few good therapists she knows. The conversations drifts to Clint, though, and Sam finds himself hovering on the edges, smiling. Bucky looks up from where he’s hopelessly trying to stop Tony from adding vibrating fingers to the new arm, and gestures at Sam.

Sam wanders over and Bucky absentmindedly offers him a plum from the fruit bowl. Sam takes one and Bucky puts the fruit bowl down, a concentrated look on his face. “Please help,” he asks, and Tony cackles, not unkindly. 

“It’s a great idea - you never even have to use them - but to have them  _ there…”  _ he trails off, wiggling his eyebrows and grinning. 

Sam looks between them, and makes up his mind when Bucky doesn’t look at all uncomfortable. “I’m with Tony,” he admits, and grins at Bucky’s now playfully betrayed face. 

Steve and Natasha walk over, and Bucky offers them plums too. They both take one. “What are we talking about?” Natasha asks, like she doesn’t already know. 

Tony and Sam look at Bucky, and he goes slightly pink at the tops of his ears. He scowls, looking like a disgruntled kitten. No one dares to tell him that, though. “Tony wants to give my new arm vibrating fingers,” he mutters. Everyone turns to look at Steve.

He looks like a tomato. 

“I -  _ what?”  _ Steve squeaks.Tony claps his hands together. 

“That’s it. I’m doing it,” he announces, before hopping off his chair. “Excuse me, but I have some final touches to add to Bucky’s new arm. Give me two days, Bucky-bud!” he says cheerily, and disappears from the apartment. 

Natasha’s smirking. Sam’s grinning. Steve’s still red. Bucky...Bucky looks slightly smug as he observes Steve’s face. He reaches over and links their pinkies together again. Steve looks down at the contact, and then the redness slowly fades from his face until he’s only slightly pink from embarrassment.

Natasha and Sam eventually filter out of the apartment, Natasha giving everyone a kiss on the cheek. She puts her shoes back on slowly, like she doesn’t want to leave the disconnection from everything bad. Sam hauls the two men into a hug, burying his face into their chests. He’s not ashamed of it. Bucky and Steve hug him back, and it feels good. He leaves their apartment in higher spirits than he’s had in a long time. 

When Steve and Bucky settle back down onto the couch, re-entwining their legs, Steve picks up his sketchpad. The look on his face makes Bucky’s heart clench. “Y’haven’t drawn since before, have you?” he asks, voice low.

Steve just shakes his head and looks at Bucky in the afternoon light, his eyes still twinkling. “I wanna, though,” he hums. 

Bucky just nods and looks around the room, helping Steve find something to draw. He comes up with a few suggestions, but when he looks back at Steve he’s still looking at Bucky. Hasn’t moved his gaze once. Bucky’s lips part with a little ‘oh’, and then he smiles. “Gonna draw me, Stevie?”

Steve nods and taps the pencil against the blank paper for a moment, before taking a deep breath and pressing the lead to it. 

Bucky just watches fondly, taking in every little frown and concentrated twist of Steve’s lips, sees every little flicker of Steve’s eyes - to Bucky and back to the page again and again - and he feels a thought form in his head. Life goes on. And, fuck if it doesn’t. 

  
He wonders if his fondness will show in the picture. He hopes it does. 


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in end notes! please read them if you're easily triggered.

The next day, they head down to Tony’s workshop at Jarvis’ request, and when they enter the room Tony spins around in his chair and jumps to his feet, grinning wickedly. “Hello!” he exclaims, and strides over to a workbench that’s set into the wall. 

Steve and Bucky wander over to him, shoulders bumping occasionally as they walk. With a wave of his hand, Tony pulls up a keyboard in the air and taps at it, smiling. The top of the bench slides away, retracting and revealing another table. This one rises up to level with the sides of the bench, and the three of them stare at a shiny metal arm, a few of its plates open and clearly still being tinkered with. 

Tony spreads his arms. “Ta-da,” he says, and turns to gauge their reactions. 

Bucky smacks his lips together and steps forwards, reaching out and brushing his fingers over the cool metal. He can feel Steve hovering behind him, can almost feel his concern radiating off him. “Can I…?” he trails off, and glances at Tony, who just shrugs. 

So Bucky lifts the forearm, incapable to lift the whole thing at the moment. And then he smiles. It’s so much lighter. He taps at a few of the plates and they shiver and slide under his touch, already responding the way they should. He takes the hand and manually shifts a few of the fingers, eyeing the way they move. The plates slide and shift over each other smoothly. When Bucky twists the forearm, it glides through the movement, making zero sound. He’s still smiling. 

There’s no star on the shoulder. He moves past it, lingers on the wires coming out of the socket. The arm isn’t connected to a power source, but as he observes the soft blue glow coming from the open shoulder, he figures it’s running on whatever Tony has in his suits. Bucky taps at a few of the wires - which aren’t really wires, they’re something that’s beyond him - and wonders how they’re supposed to connect to him. As he looks closer, he figures they’ll be grafted to his bones and nerves in a way. There are other things there too, that are thinner than strands of hair and feel even softer. He doesn’t touch them for long, afraid he’ll break them.

He shifts his attention to the way the arm twitches and how the plates shift and whir softly at his touch. His smile grows. He slides his fingertips all the way down the length of the bicep, pausing at the inner crook of the elbow. He taps at a plate there, running his fingers along the grooves. The plates shudder and part, one of them snapping open. The soft blue light shimmers out and it looks like it’s swimming in the silver of the arm. He blinks at it, then taps it again. It closes, and he moves on. 

He strokes back down the forearm, tests the way a few other plates shift and open to reveal sites that can be touched up if the arm gets damaged. He taps at the wrist, watches the plates shiver again, but nothing opens there. He turns the hand over and presses his thumb into the palm. He feels his eyes go wide as he feels  _ warmth.  _ The palm is radiating a soft heat, almost the temperature of a real human hand. He moves his thumb up and presses against the knuckles, testing how they feel. Then he steps back and turns his attention to Tony. 

Tony looks a little unsure, which is a first, and Bucky just stares at him for a bit before he smiles. “It’s amazing,” he breathes. Then he turns to Steve, who’s looking at him with a soft expression on his face. “When can I put it on?” Bucky asks, shifting back to Tony again.

Tony’s grinning, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “I’ve got a few more things to touch up, a few things to tinker with, but it should be ready by tomorrow. I’ve already got the surgeons briefed,” he tells him.

Bucky pauses and cold suddenly worms its way inside of him. Everything had been going so well that he’d forgotten that getting a new arm means surgery, and now _... _ It’s like a bullet to the gut and there's no warning when - 

_ They’re everywhere, above him, crawling around him like wolves getting ready to pounce. He feels too open, too exposed. He’s strapped down on a cold metal table and his chest feels too heavy. Maybe there’s something on top of him. He rolls his head to the right, sees more of them - the scientists? Surgeons? - looking at him with almost blank eyes. They’re pleased, though. He can see it on their faces, even if their eyes are dead.  _

_ He turns his head to the left, looks down at what’s left of his arm. It’s still like a punch to the stomach every time he sees it. He looks away quickly and his eyes drift to another scientist. He’s tall and staring down at Bucky, his eyes the coldest of all. Bucky swallows, suddenly aware of the drugs still pumping through his system.  _

_ He’d been in his cell when they came in with the hose and the cloth. They’d been pretty interested in waterboarding lately, and Bucky can still feel the dampness in his lungs, the wet drag of every breath. He’d gotten used to it, though. What he wasn’t used to was the needle they’d stuck into his neck after, and how he’d gotten off the ground only to fall against the wall and slide back down, feeling like the earth was ripped out from underneath him.  _

_ His head is still swimming now and his movements and thoughts are sluggish. He shifts his eyes down to see what the man is holding, tries to push past the bleariness in his brain. The man is gripping a metal saw. It looks like a machine, and it’s attached to a boxy handle. Bucky figures the saw probably moves on its own - electronic or some shit - in order to cut through things that would take too long if a human did it.  _

_ Bucky blinks a few times, trying to clear his head and get rid of the black spots. He moves his head so he’s looking up at the ceiling. He feels sick from the drugs, and when he wants to swallow down the nausea he finds he’s got a gag in his mouth. He frowns and looks around again.  _

_ “Thought those drugs were going to knock him out longer,” someone says from somewhere above him, and he frowns because it’s in English.  _

_ “Oh well,” another voice sighs. Bucky’s very confused. _

_ Then he feels something cold press to his shoulder, something sharp digging into his skin. He turns his head to look to his left, and wishes he hadn’t. The man flicks the saw on.  _

“Bucky, Bucky please! You’re safe, c’mon, you’re here in 2015, it’s alright, you’re safe, please - “

Bucky lashes out, his hand smacking into a hard chest. The person falls back, away from him, and Bucky brings his hand back to grip at his head. He lets out a high keening sound and rolls onto his front on the floor. He curls into himself, making sure his chin is tucked into his chest. He presses his forehead into the cool tiles. 

He can hear someone shuffling their feet and wishes they’d stop. He breathes slowly, calming his heart rate right down, and his head clears bit by bit. When he blinks his eyes open again to stare at the floor, he feels so, so heavy. He swallows and rocks back so he’s kneeling, his hand resting on his right knee. 

He turns his head and looks at Steve, who’s sitting with his legs spread out in front of him. The way he's sitting echoes pain, but all his eyes hold is worry. Bucky blinks slowly and then closes his eyes. “Are there any plums in here?” he mumbles. He vaguely acknowledges Tony moving, hopefully to get some. 

When he opens his eyes again, Steve has moved onto his knees. He’s still looking at Bucky, but his face is all soft. “Was it a bad one?” he whispers, voice betraying that he already knows the answer. 

Bucky blinks at him, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He knows he’s pale, knows he’s shaking. He doesn’t answer. Steve just nods. “Do you wanna talk about it?” Steve asks next, because he’s good like that. 

“I don’t know if I can have the surgery,” Bucky whispers, voice pulled taut with emotion. 

Steve frowns, but it’s in concern. “But you want your arm, right?”

Bucky nods and drops his eyes to his lap. “Anesthesia - it doesn’t work properly on me,” he breathes, voice so quiet he knows even Steve will have to strain to hear it. “I woke up last time.” He’s not sure if he’s talking about when they took his arm off in the Tower, or about when they put it on all those years ago. 

“I know,” Steve replies, voice just as quiet.

Bucky supposes he does. Tony returns and hovers around them quietly. Bucky looks up at him, sees the plums in his hands, the unsure look on his face, and pats the ground beside him. Tony comes to sit in between them and gives Bucky the plums. “So what’s happening?” Tony asks. 

Bucky glances at Steve, already chewing on a mouthful of plum, and blinks at him in question. Steve gives him a soft look and Bucky has to tear his eyes away. “The arm is perfect, Tony,” Bucky murmurs. He flicks his gaze up to look at Tony, who’s watching him with careful eyes. “But I don’t know about the surgery,” he tries to explain. 

Tony nods and gets this thoughtful look on his face. “What if you met the surgeons first, talked to them? Steve could stay in the room the entire time, we could sort that out. And I’ve made an anesthesia that should work on you,” he offers. 

Bucky stares at him. “Um, that...could work?” He winces even as he says it. “Could I...Could I get on the table myself?” he asks. 

Tony shrugs. “I guess so, I don’t see why not. This is already different,” he says.

Bucky turns his gaze back to Steve’s and frowns slightly. Steve just looks back at him, his eyes nothing but supportive. Bucky knows he’ll be there for him no matter what. “Okay. I’ll give it a go,” Bucky whispers, still a little unsure. He finishes his plum while staring at the floor.

Tony moves back to the arm and pulls out a few tools. He works while Steve and Bucky sit there, Steve watching Bucky and Bucky watching memories replay through his mind like a film. They get up eventually and they both thank Tony, who waves it away. They head back to Steve’s apartment and fall onto the couch. 

“Are you sure?” is the first thing Steve says. 

Bucky looks at him. “You’ll be there, right?” he asks. 

Steve nods, looking more certain than he’s been all day. “Then I’m sure.”

~

Things don’t go well that night. Not on Bucky’s end, surprisingly (or not) but on Steve’s. Because apparently Bucky’s not the only one who is tortured by his memories. But for Steve, it happens almost seclusively in his nightmares. 

_ The yoke is firm in his hands, and his knuckles are white from gripping it so hard. His jaw hurts from clenching it. He’s staring straight ahead, looking out into the clouds. Everything hurts. Not his wounds, no, those almost feel like a blessing compared to the storm in his brain and chest. He’s just. He’s done. And if that means crashing this fucking plane into the ocean, then so be it. It helps that this is going to save the world, too.  _

_ “Come in, this is Captain Rogers.” His fingers are shaking, but his voice is steady as steel. “Do you read me?”   _

_ The response is professional. “Captain Rogers, what is your -” _

_ The voice is cut off and Steve frowns, staring at blurry clouds. He just - he’s so tired. “Steve, is that you? Are you alright?”  _

_ Peggy. Peggy’s talking to him. He swallows and tries to find the energy to reply. He hasn’t had much of it since...Well. Since. “Great, Schmit’s dead,” he reports.  _

_ “What about the plane?” There’s so much emotion running through Peggy’s voice.  _

_ Steve works his jaw, grinding his teeth. He swallows back memories of laughter, sees flashes of screaming. Feels the hollowness in his chest. “That’s a little tougher to explain,” he replies.  _

_ He can almost hear the wind roaring in his ears. He’s imagined it so many times, putting himself in Bucky’s place. Laid awake at night - he hasn’t slept since the train - or just sat on the bed, or curled into a ball, and imagined. Watched Bucky falling over and over again in his mind. Swapped them around. Stared up at Bucky, safe in the train.   _

_ “Give me your coordinates, I’ll find you a safe landing site.” Peggy’s voice snaps him back to the task at hand. Steve blinks slowly and takes a deep breath. It hurts. Everything fucking  _ hurts.  _ The clouds blur even more, but none of his tears fall. He’d really like to be rid of this pain.  _

_ “There’s not going to be a safe landing.” It was all his fucking fault. “I’m going to try and force it down.” It should have been him.  _

_ He should have fallen with him, at the very least. “I’ll get Howard on the line, he’ll know what to do.” Peggy’s trying, Steve knows this. His heart aches differently for a second. Peggy. God, he wishes everything was different. He really did love her, it’s just...everything’s gone. There’s nothing but pain left inside of him.  _

_ “There’s not enough time.” There probably is. He doesn’t care. “This thing’s moving too fast, and it’s heading for New York.” He pauses. He nods to himself, just slightly. Solidifies his choice. “I gotta put her in the water.”  _

_ It doesn’t faze him as much as he thought it would. If anything, it dulls the pain a little, gives him an edge of relief. It’ll all be over soon. The pain will be gone. The memory Bucky’s screaming face will be gone too. Steve’s suddenly itching for it - he wants it so, so bad.  _

_ “Please don’t do this,” crackles through the speaker. Peggy’s voice is laced with promised tears. “We have time, we can work it out.”   _

_ Steve bites his lip and wishes this wouldn’t hurt her so bad. He’d love to wrap his arms around Peggy, kiss her forehead and tell her everything will be alright. He can’t do that, though. He can’t. Not with the ghost of Bucky screaming in his head and barbed wire digging into his heart.  _

_ “Right now I’m in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer a lot of people are gonna die.” He’s so tired. He’s gonna stop fighting, soon. Hell, he already has. He’s just trying to leave Peggy in peace. He closes his eyes. “Peggy,” he murmurs when there’s no reply. “This is my choice.” Still no reply. “Peggy.” _

_ “I’m here.” It’s filled with tears.  _

_ Steve opens his eyes and takes out his compass. He sets it down in front of him, stares at Peggy’s face. It swims in his vision until it’s Bucky laughing at him from the picture. He feels a little warmer. “I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance,” he says.  _

_ “All right,” Peggy hums. _

_ Steve blinks and Bucky’s face is gone. He studies Peggy’s and wonders how things could have played out. He forces his eyes back on the horizon. “A week, next Saturday at the Stork Club,” she tells him.  _

_ “You got it,” he promises. He kind of wishes he could meet her there, but everything hurts too much. It feels cowardly, wanting to stop the pain this desperately. He’s not going to change his mind, though.  _

_ “Eight o’clock on the dot. Don’t you dare be late.” Peggy has to take a breath, and Steve’s heart clenches. “Understood?”  _

_ “You know, I still don’t know how to dance,” Steve says. The ground is coming up faster and faster. He’s not sure when he started aiming the plane’s nose downwards. He can feel the ice water already, creeping up around him and taking his heart in its claws. It seems like heaven.  _

_ “I’ll show you how. Just be there.” _

_ “We’ll have the band play something slow,” he promises. “I’d hate to step on your -” he chokes off as the plane hits the ice.  _

_ His chest slams into the yoke, crushing his sternum, and he can’t breathe. Everything goes black, but he can still feel the pain in his heart. Why isn’t the pain gone? He should be dead. Why isn’t he dead? Fuck, everything hurts. The ice is taking him apart piece by piece and the water is closing around him like a vice. He opens his eyes but it’s too dark to see anything.  _

_ He’s going to die. It hits him now. _

_ He supposes he could try get to the surface, escape the plane. He can hold his breath for a long time, he knows. He might make it. He might die struggling. But...it’s almost nice, just floating here in the ice water. It hurts like hell, but it’s peaceful. There’s no noise. No screaming, no fighting, no orders. Just him and his pain.  _

_ He could try to survive.  _

_ Instead, he sighs out the last of his breath and lets water fill his lungs on the next inhale. He might try to scream, because it hurts a lot more than he thought it would, but it’s drowned out by the ice. He claws at his throat, at the water around him. He doesn’t regret it. He just wants it to be over already.  _

_ He feels it creeping up on him, emerging from behind the pain and the panic and the water and the ice. Darkness. _

_ He remembers something, as it crushes his bones to dust. Bucky. With him. They’re in their apartment, laughing. They had a home, before everything went to shit. Steve had never, ever felt alone. They’d  _ built  _ something. A life together, no matter how much the both of them denied that part of it. They were brothers, best friends, but if Steve could go back...He’d tell Bucky everything. How much he’d wanted to kiss him. How much he’d wanted  _ more  _ for the both of them.  _

_ He doesn’t feel as disgusted with himself now that the darkness is clawing his eyes out.  _

_ He can still see, though, see them holding each other. He imagines that Bucky never fell, that he himself had never had his heart carved out by the person he loved the most.  _

_ Steve feels the darkness close over his mind. He feels it as he turns into dust, into nothing. He settles into the ice, imagines it’s Bucky’s open arms. The pain slides away.  _

_ He comes home.  _

“ -eve! Steve! Wake up, please,  _ wake up _ !” 

The voice is shrill and full of desperation and choked with tears. Steve opens his eyes, feels the ice slip away from his body. He blinks at Bucky, who’s leaning over him and shaking him, his hand gripping his shoulder. Bucky looks frantic, eyes wild and face tear streaked. His hair’s all over the place, sticking to his skin. Steve frowns. 

“Bucky?” he rasps, confused. He was sure he’d died. Maybe...Is this heaven? Why is Bucky crying? When did he grow his hair out?

Bucky chokes out another sob and falls down onto Steve’s chest. Steve hums, wrapping his arms around him sluggishly. He thinks he gets it - maybe Bucky’s crying cause Steve killed himself? “It was my choice, Buck, I wanted it,” he tries to reassure him.

Bucky  _ howls,  _ and the sound ripping from his throat turns muffled as he presses his face into Steve’s chest. Steve aches and figures that was the wrong thing to say. “It’s okay, Buck, I’m here now. We’re both okay,” he tries again.

Bucky’s shaking and Steve frowns. The soft cloud that’s settled around his mind starts to clear, breaking away piece by jagged piece. “Oh,” he breathes. 

He didn’t die. That’s right. 

He feels his face scrunch up. Feels the tears come back and slide down his face. He becomes aware of their surroundings - they’re in Steve’s room, where he’d fallen asleep, but they’re on the floor. He swallows around the emotions blocking his airway and chokes out a sob. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry - “ He’s forcing the words out, voice cracking and desperate, because he is so fucking sorry, sorry he let Bucky fall and sorry he killed himself when he should have been stronger, sorry he left Peggy behind because he was selfish, sorry Bucky spent seventy years being tortured and used to kill people, sorry that despite being Captain America he wasn’t ever good enough. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s hand comes up to slam over Steve’s mouth, and he stops talking. “Shut up,” Bucky says, rising from Steve’s chest to stare down at him with so much emotion on his face. Bucky takes a huge, shuddering breath, and his shoulders drop forwards. He closes his eyes. “You were - you were screaming. Crying. Writhing. Shouting about how much it hurt.” He opens his eyes. They’re dark. “I couldn’t wake you up,” he whispers. 

Steve swallows around the ice still clogging his throat and squeezes his eyes shut. Remembers the pain. Bucky takes his hand away, but Steve still can’t breathe. He wants to now, though, so he tries. When he can, he opens his eyes again, and stares up at Bucky with raw desperation. “I just wanted to make it stop,” he chokes out. 

Bucky’s face falls and he hangs his head, hand curling into a fist on Steve’s chest. “You had the rest of your life,” he rasps.

Steve shakes his head. “No, not without you,” is the only thing he can say. Because it’s true. 

“You killed yourself,” Bucky snaps, but it’s weak.

It still feels like a knife to the heart. Steve shakes his head, chokes out a broken sob. “I was already dead, Buck,” he says, on the verge of hysteria. 

Bucky stares at him, eyes open and raw but Steve can’t bare read them, because there’s nothing to read but pain. Steve’s own eyes are a mirror, shining back at Bucky with the same amount of anguish he’d felt when he put the plane down. Then everything between them breaks, and Bucky falls forward, fisting his hand in Steve’s hair and shuddering out a rough breath full of tears. “Don’t you ever fucking do it again, promise me,” he forces out. 

Steve tightens his grip on Bucky, and it feels like he’s holding onto him so he doesn’t float away. “I don’t want to. You’re with me, now,” he sighs. He just lies there, with Bucky on top of him and tears rolling down the sides of his face and wetting his hair. 

“I shouldn’t be the only thing keeping you here,” he hears Bucky whisper, voice so broken and tired it reminds Steve how much Bucky’s been hurt. 

  
He feels hollow when he replies. “You are, though.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so discussions of a future medical procedure and then a detailed memory of a suicide. suicidal thoughts and suicidal intent. read carefully!


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha hah ah hha warnings in end notes :(

Bucky’s long since started analysing his days and putting them into categories: Good Days, Average Days, Nothing Days and Bad Days. Today is a Bad Day. He calls Tony to tell him that he’d like to postpone the surgery to tomorrow. His hand is shaking as he does it. Tony assures him that it’s fine and Bucky hangs up after a mumbled thank you. Steve’s still on the floor in his bedroom, just lying there and staring at the ceiling. He has been for the past hour. 

After the nightmare - memory? - Steve sort of slipped away. Bucky had been sitting on top of him still, pressed to his chest, when Steve’s arms had loosened their hold and fallen away. Bucky had gotten off, sitting beside him, and felt the fear re-lodge itself in his throat. He’d pressed his hand to Steve’s cheek and frowned down at him, murmuring his name. Steve hadn’t responded, just stared with glassy eyes at the ceiling. 

Yeah. Bad Day. 

Bucky goes back to the bedroom and hovers in the doorway. He bites at his lips and then walks forward. “Stevie?” he asks quietly, not expecting a response. 

He doesn’t get one. Steve doesn’t even twitch. Bucky sighs and kneels beside him. He takes one of Steve’s hands and plays with his fingers, scraping the pad of his thumb across Steve’s pointer fingernail. Eventually, Bucky maneuvers himself so he’s sitting behind Steve and forces him into a sitting position. Steve helps him a bit, movements slow and unsure, and then Bucky encourages him to stand. 

Bucky leads him to the kitchen and sits him down on a stool. Steve leans heavily on the counter, like it’s too much effort to stay upright. He looks exhausted. Bucky understands. Whatever memory Steve had been reliving - and Bucky has a pretty good idea which one it was - it’s taken all of Steve’s energy. 

Bucky moves around the kitchen, keeping one eye of Steve and one eye on the sandwich he’s making. He doubts Steve’s going to be able to eat much of it, but something is better than nothing. He makes a small one for himself, too, because ever since he discovered nutella he’s been trying to train his stomach to keep it down. Nutella and plums. Nutella on plums? 

“Buck.”

Bucky whips around, nearly dropping the nutella coated knife, and blinks at Steve, who’s face is screwed up with intense concentration. Bucky waits, putting the knife down carefully. Steve takes a while, clearly trying to drag up enough energy to talk. Bucky understands. He’s patient. 

“Your. Surgery,” Steve manages, his face slowly morphing into an expression of concern. 

“I’m having it tomorrow. Don’t worry, Steve. Here, try to eat this,” Bucky hands over Steve’s sandwich, and watches him stare at it with a frown on his face. 

Steve takes the sandwich - cut into quarters - and he slowly takes a bite. He chews, his face smoothed back out to blankness. It kind of scares Bucky, if he’s honest. He goes back to making his own sandwich and eats it slowly, - this is the last thing he’s allowed to eat till after surgery -  watching Steve get through his. He seems to be slowly coming back to himself, eyes becoming less and less like windows showing an empty room. He’s looking around the room instead of staring at one spot in front of him, and he’s chewing a bit quicker now. 

Eventually, his eyes meet Bucky’s and he blinks, his face showing some form of emotion - concern? Bucky just swallows the last of his sandwich and hopes to hell it doesn’t come back up. It was a damn good sandwich. He moves forward and hovers near Steve, who sets what’s left of his sandwich down and reaches his arms out. Bucky falls into them and wraps his arm around Steve. 

“You fucking scared me, asshole,” he snaps as he feels Steve slowly relax against him. 

Steve sighs. “Sorry,” he says, and then pulls back a bit. “Can we. The couch?” he asks, not making much of an effort to build proper sentences. 

  
Bucky just nods and leads them to the couch, helping Steve sit down even if he doesn’t need it. He sits down across from him and keeps his feet on the ground. Steve’s curled up in the corner, eyes closed. He looks pale and his forehead is creased into a frown. Bucky watches as he falls back asleep, and only moves when he decides that Steve’s fast asleep enough not to experience any nightmares.   


Bucky gets up and hunts down a blanket, carefully covering Steve with it. Steve shifts on the couch to snuggle further into the warmth. There’s no sun today, just clouds. It’s not raining, but it looks like it might start sometime soon. Bucky sits down on his knees on the carpet and watches the clouds move slowly across the sky. 

Steve’s sleeping pretty soundly, hopefully too exhausted to dream. So he stays asleep when the first rumbling of thunder shakes the sky. He misses the flashes of lightning too. 

Now, Bucky knows that it’s lightning. He knows it won’t hurt him (he’s pretty sure Tony’s safe-proofed the entire Tower against anything) but. It’s bright and it lights up in Bucky’s face,  _ right there,  _ and it looks a whole hell of a lot like the electricity that burned right through his brain and took everything from him.

He curls into a ball and tries to ignore it. The thunder rolls on, shaking the very air around him. He doesn’t mind that too much. The bolts of light reach behind his closed eyelids, dragging every illusion of safety away with them. He gasps out, hand digging into the carpet as his eyes fly open. Phantom pain screeches through his missing limb and swords impale his brain. 

He doesn’t scream.

He grits his teeth, feels one of his back molars on the verge of cracking. His hand comes up to grip the side of his head. Thunder rolls through the sky, pounds through his body. Lightning tears through the sky in front of him, lighting up the fire in his mind. He writhes on the ground, squeezing his eyes shut as bites down on his forearm and  _ screams.  _

It’s muffled behind his arm, but Steve shoots upright on the couch anyway and stares around the room, clearly disoriented. Bucky convulses on the floor at the next round of lightning and then he’s fucking  _ gone.  _ He doesn’t feel Steve’s hands on him, doesn’t hear Steve yelling. All he can feel is the lightning coursing through his head, taking him up and throwing him back to the ground, shattering every single bone in his body.

He lashes out with his limbs and screams at the top of his lungs. He gets on his back at some point, his hips in the air as the lightning in his head travels through his entire body. He chokes out another scream and rolls onto his side, tasting red. 

Red. 

Suddenly the white he sees on the backs of his eyelids is laced with red. He snaps his jaw shut and whimpers, the lightning still jolting through his muscles. He twitches on the floor, body still jerking from the aftershocks. He rolls back onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, eyes open and his ears ringing. The lightning’s stopped. Has it? The room is dark. They usually have the lights on, right? 

“Bucky.” There’s someone on his right. 

Bucky? Who the hell is - oh. He chokes out a rough laugh and rolls away from Steve, who tries to cling to him. “Bucky, what happened?”

The curtains have been shut, letting absolutely no light through. Bucky stares through the darkness and reaches out for Steve, who holds onto him like a lifeline. “We’re such a mess,” Bucky croaks, head lolling down as he sits up gingerly, still tender from the phantom lightning that had been breaking his bones apart. 

Steve doesn’t laugh, but he huffs out a breath. He seems amused. Bucky’ll take it. “What was that?” Steve asks. 

“The lightning,” Bucky offers, and that’s when the lights snap on. 

He blinks, eyes adjusting to the sudden yellow light, and he finds himself staring at Steve, who’s looking at the people standing in the doorway. Clint’s got an arrow notched and pointed directly at Bucky, unwavering, and Natasha’s holding her gun. Sam’s hovering behind them, unarmed. Bucky follows Steve’s gaze and frowns at them, still shaking. 

“We heard screaming,” Sam says, stepping forwards once they see there’s no immediate threat. 

  
Natasha twitches like she wants to stop him, but then she relaxes her hand and her stance. Clint follows, releasing the taut hold on the arrow and letting the bow drop to his side. They hang back as Sam comes forward, his hands held out like he’s approaching wild animals. Steve doesn’t seem to notice that he moves closer to Bucky, and his skin tingles. Steve doesn’t speak, and Bucky feels uncomfortable on the floor, looking up at Sam. His chest constricts oddly. 

Something must show on their faces, because Sam drops to the ground next to them, frowning. “Guys? Are you alright?” he asks. 

Bucky feels Steve tense and he glances at him, searching his face. Steve remains impassive, but his hand twitches where it’s resting against Bucky’s thigh. Bucky presses his lips together and turns back to Sam. “We’re fine,” he tells him. 

He sees the disappointment  in Sam’s eyes and he wants to take the words back, but he feels far too vulnerable right now. He feels the intense urge to protect Steve, too, because he’s still not talking and he looks vaguely sick. Bucky shudders and regrets letting the movement out when four pairs of eyes instantly snap to him. 

He grits his teeth together and locks his muscles down. The phantom electricity has started to fade, and he feels stupid now that the whole thing’s over. The thunder’s rumbling outside, but no flashes make it through the curtains. He hopes it stays that way. 

“What happened?” Sam asks next. Bucky glances at Steve before replying again. 

“Just a little flashback,” he admits, and Steve doesn’t say that it wasn’t really a flashback at all. There was no memory. There was only his mind reacting to the lightning the way it expected itself to. And even now, his body is trembling through the phantom aftershocks as he grits his teeth, trying to control the little jolts. 

Sam frowns, and Bucky watches as Natasha and Clint shift in the doorway, unsure of what to do now that there’s no threat. “We heard screaming last night, too,” he adds. 

“We’re working on it,” Bucky grits out, suddenly furious. Steve can’t help it. And...Well. Neither can he. 

Sam’s face falls. “That’s not what I meant, James - “

“Bucky,” Bucky snaps, because he  _ knows  _ who he is now. He’s got his 99 years of memory back, thank you very much. Mostly. 

Sam looks surprised, and so do Natasha and Clint. “Bucky. When did that happen?” Sam asks, glancing at Steve. 

Steve stays silent, apparently content to let Bucky do the talking. He’s still not fully back. Apart from the exhaustion in his body and the shock over what just happened, Bucky feels fine. He ignores Sam’s question,and shuffles backwards. Steve moves with him, frowning at the two spies hovering at the door. Natasha sighs and taps at Clint’s shoulder. They leave together, and the room feels lighter now that there’s no one waiting for something to go wrong. 

“I’ve got a therapist to ask me those questions,” Bucky deadpans, even though he doesn’t yet. That’s the goal for after the surgery.

Sam’s face softens a little and he sighs. “Sorry, Bucky.” Bucky’s not sure what Sam’s apologising for, but he accepts it with a small dip of his head. 

<>

Sam’s attention shifts to Steve and he frowns a little as Steve frowns back at him. The dynamics between Bucky and Steve are seriously confusing Sam. Even now, they twist and wrap around each other, both shifting to accommodate the other. Sam figures they’ve simply always been used to being a team - standing up together and protecting the other where they could. Here and now, Bucky’s slightly in front of Steve while Steve almost presses himself into Bucky’s side - and neither of them seem to notice it. 

And they’re both stubborn as hell. Even though Sam and the others aren’t outsiders, he gets the feeling Bucky and Steve are subconsciously treating them as such - maybe they see them as threats? That would explain why they’re both so defensive right now. They’re vulnerable; Bucky’s clearly just had some sort of memory attack and Steve’s so quiet that he can’t be feeling too great right now either. 

“I heard you postponed the surgery, Bucky?” Sam says in an effort to keep them talking. Bucky seems to be shutting back down and his hand is shaking. There are small tremors running through his body but his face stays defiant and hard. 

Bucky shrugs and glances at Steve out of the corner of his eyes. Steve’s watching Sam with tired eyes, and Sam wonders if the screaming last night had been him. It’d happened before, but to wake Sam up from his room down the hall and through the thick walls...Whatever happened, it must have been pretty bad. He wonders if it’s a good idea to have both of them living in the same apartment, wonders if they’re feeding off each other’s bad energies. He doesn’t think they’d ever agree to being separated though. 

“Till tomorrow,” Bucky replies, and Steve moves his eyes to search Bucky’s face. 

Bucky’s still pale - he has been since Sam came into the room - but he looks like he’s holding up okay. At a second glance, Sam finds that Steve’s not so convinced - he looks concerned. “Have you met the surgeons yet?” Sam asks.

“Nah,” Bucky hums, and rolls onto his kneecaps before standing up. 

Steve follows and Sam gets up slowly, aware of the thunder still rumbling on outside. It’s quiet for the rest of the day - Bucky and Steve stay on the couch, apparently not bothered by Sam staying in the apartment. Sam doesn’t feel like he can leave; he’s too worried about the both of them at the moment. So they hover around each other and Sam makes some food. Bucky can’t eat because of his surgery the next day, but he scowls at Steve until he eats his. The storm passes and night rolls around. Sam stays on the couch, despite their protests, and waves them away, getting blankets and pillows for himself. 

Bucky retreats to his room first, eyes lingering on Steve in a way that warms Sam inside out - Bucky looks  _ content  _ but not without the constant lingering concern and super-charged ball of emotion prickling inside of him. Steve smiles softly at him and then turns to Sam, pulling him into a hug. Sam just sighs and sends him off to bed. He doesn’t get much sleep that night, can hear both men talking in their sleep. One of them cries out several times, before falling silent again. The rain patters against the windows and Sam lies awake, staring the ceiling and wondering how the hell this became his life. 

<>

The meeting with the surgeons the next morning goes well, by Steve’s account. Bucky sits beside him, stiff and quiet, and his jaw clenches a few too many times as the surgeons explain what’s going to happen, but he doesn’t do much more than that. He nods along in the right places and even cracks a small smile when the head surgeon, a tiny woman with nimble hands, offers the both of them a lollipop. Apparently Mr Stark insisted they were ‘an integral part’ of his medical wing. 

They leave as soon as the meeting is finished. A nurse leads them straight into another room with a window seat and a large hospital cot set up in the middle of the room. She explains that this is where Bucky will wake up, and Steve can see the relief drip from Bucky’s shoulders. The nurse lets him walk around the room, and Bucky subtly checks the place for bugs. When he’s satisfied, he lets the nurse lead them to another room. 

“Mr Barnes, the surgeons are prepping for your surgery now, so when you’re ready please change into this and wait here for me to come get you.” The nurse smiles and exits the room. 

Bucky turns to Steve and his facade immediately crumples. “Oh, Buck,” Steve sighs, and gathers him in his arms. 

Bucky wants to protest, he does, but he just falls into Steve and lets out a tiny shudder. “This is the  _ worst,”  _ he grits out. 

Steve just nods, because he can sympathize even if he doesn’t understand. Bucky huffs out a sigh and pulls back. He looks annoyed and a little gloomy, but for some reason, Steve’s not worried. Bucky’s moving smoothly and his shoulder is unbandaged today, just a simple gauze over the wound so it doesn’t get irritated. He’s wearing a long-sleeved sweater, with the left sleeve pinned back. Though yesterday had been bumpy as hell - maybe one of the worst days in a while - today is lighter, despite the looming surgery. 

Steve steps out of the room to let Bucky change, and when Bucky calls out that he’s finished, he walks in to find him standing unsurely in the middle of the room. The hospital gown is all closed up, but has buttons in the front and no sleeves. He’s angled his body so his left side is further away from Steve, shielding his shoulder. Steve just smiles and moves forwards, reaching out and tentatively taking Bucky’s hand in his. 

“It’s gonna be fine, Buck. These surgeons are the best of the best, and I’m gonna be in the room the whole time,” he promises. 

Bucky just nods. It’s all he can do at the moment. The nurse comes back in and leads them to the surgery room. It’s dark, illuminated by the lights shining on the surgery table. Steve can already see Bucky tensing up and shutting down. His jaw is tight and his eyes are taking in every inch of the room, probably calculating exits and weapons and dangers. The nurse hands Steve his scrubs and leaves. 

Steve pulls the clothes on over his own, but leaves his mask off for now. Bucky’s staring at the table, tense and uncertain. Steve takes his hand again and squeezes softly. Bucky turns to look at him, eyes wide and face ashen. Steve just smiles. Bucky takes a deep breath and moves over to the table. 

The surgeons all greet them, and then Bucky slowly gets on the table, gritting his teeth as he lies down. Steve’s heart clenches, and he hovers beside Bucky. One of the surgeons comes over with the anesthesia mask, and Bucky makes a panicked noise low in his throat. Steve crouches down, ignoring the disapproving looks he gets from the surgeons. They’d been reluctant to let him in the room at all, but Tony had pulled some strings. 

Bucky stares at Steve when he takes the mask from the surgeon, who just sighs. “I’ll be right there when you wake up, alright? And I’ll be with you the whole time,” Steve whispers. 

Bucky takes his time, but he finally nods. Steve settles the mask over Bucky’s face, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds. He breathes evenly and holds Steve’s gaze till his eyes slip shut and he goes under. 

*

Hours and hours pass. Steve stays back, watching the whole thing with stinging eyes. The surgeons have finished reinforcing Bucky’s spine, shoulder and most of his upper back, leaving tiny, tidy lines all over him. Steve knows they will heal without a mark. They’re working on attaching the shoulder socket now, fixing up the shape of his remaining bones and replacing the rest with the metal. Steve sees now that the new arm will be easily attachable and detachable, and not for the first time, he thanks God for Tony. 

Speaking of. 

Steve can see Tony up in the viewing room, watching the operation through the glass. And he looks...stormy. His suit is rumpled and his eyes are tired but hard as steel. His eyes cut from Bucky to Steve and his entire face goes dark. He beckons with one finger, and Steve frowns up at him. Seeing his hesitation, Tony narrows his eyes and walks out of the room. An intercom clicks on from somewhere, and Tony’s voice filters in.

“Captain, I need to speak with you for a moment,” comes through. He sounds so furious that Steve shifts nervously and takes a step towards the door. 

But he  _ promised.  _ So he waits. Another hour passes, and the operation is coming to an end. They are making the final stitches, and then they’re wheeling Bucky into the recovery room. They haven’t put on his arm yet - they’ll wait a day or two until Bucky’s healed enough so his body can handle the weight on the new adjustments. Steve trails along, but he barely makes it a step out of the room before Iron Man is slamming him into a wall. 

Steve gasps, the air knocked out of him, and then his brain catches up with what’s happening. “Tony?” He barely manages to get his name out, because the Iron Man suit is heavy as  _ hell,  _ and Tony has him pinned against the wall; putting immense pressure on Steve’s chest. 

Tony brings his face close, until Steve’s eyes hurt from the glowing of the suit’s eyes. “Did you know?” Tony demands, and it takes a while for Steve to sift through all the emotions running through those three words. 

Anger, disbelief, anguish, and pure, undiluted  _ fury.  _ Tony chokes out a laugh, the sound slightly tinny from the microphone on the suit. “Tony, what are you talking about? Why’re you wearing the suit?” Steve responds, wincing as he feels Tony put more pressure  on his chest. 

He doesn’t see the punch coming. 

One moment he’s staring into the blue luminescence, and the next he’s seeing stars as a titanium alloy fist collides with the side of his face. He chokes out a groan, because that fucking  _ hurt.  _ There’s blood dripping past his lips from biting his tongue, and he’s pretty sure his entire face is going to be one big bruise. Tony steps back and Steve stays upright, turning his face back to look at him. He wishes he could see Tony’s expression so maybe he could understand what the fuck is happening. 

“ _ Did. You. Know,”  _ Tony repeats. Steve just stares at him, lost, and Tony lashes out, fist smashing into Steve’s abdomen. 

Steve reacts quicker this time, twists to the side so the punch simply ends up buried in the wall. He stares at it with wide eyes, and wonders what the fuck is happening. Tony comes at him again, stepping into the punch this time, and Steve leaps away, wishing he had his shield on him. “Know what, Tony? What are you doing?!” he gasps, catching the next punch.

It jolts his shoulder and he has to plant his feet in order not to slide back. His arm takes the momentum, and he’s pretty sure that’s gonna bruise his palm. He fucking hates palm bruises. Tony just brings his other arm around and gets Steve in the ribs. Steve shouts, and then grits his teeth and  _ pushes.  _ Tony stumbles backwards, but doesn’t expect Steve to leap at him, throwing his whole body into a kick to Tony’s chest. 

Steve falls backwards, but lands on the ground with his palms planted on the floor. Tony crashes into the wall and his faceplate snaps open. Steve’s heart sinks as he sees the wild look on Tony’s face, and winces as he stands up again. His ribs smart, but he can’t do anything but take in Tony’s eyes. They’re red rimmed from crying, and he looks so far gone it makes Steve’s heart sink.. 

“That  _ sonovabitch _ ,” Tony snarls. Steve sees the flash of desperate anger in his eyes before the faceplate snaps shut again, and then Tony’s moving forward, fists raised. 

Steve turns and runs, feet pounding on the linoleum floor, ripping off his scrubs as he goes. He rounds a sharp corner, listening to Tony’s boots follow him. Why is this happening? And fuck, he doesn’t want to hurt Tony, but he’s closing in on him and Steve’s not just gonna stand there and take it. 

Tony catches up to him. Steve twists mid-run and uses the momentum to put more force behind the punch that collides with the suit’s face. Tony’s neck whips backwards. Steve feels his knuckles split open on the metal, but ignores it in favor of following through with a kick to Tony’s chest, sending him stumbling backwards again. Steve keeps going before Tony can recover, throwing around a kick that nearly sends Tony to the floor, but he sends a tiny blast from his repulsors that keep him upright. 

And then he sends a blast of light at Steve. Steve gets hit right in the chest, unprepared, and smacks into the wall behind him, the back of his head cracking on the plaster. His chest stings from the burn, but he barely notices it past the spinning of his head. He blinks black spots out of his vision and ducks just in time to avoid the punch aimed right for his nose. 

“Tony, what are you doing?!” Steve tries to reach him, dropping to the ground and rolling as Tony destroys a part of the wall with punches that are meant for him. 

He leaps back to his feet and Tony follows his movements, already moving to lash out at him again. Steve jumps at him first, beating his down on the faceplate and aiming another punch at Tony’s side. His knuckles are dripping with blood, and he’s pretty sure a couple of them are broken, so he reverts to bringing Tony to the ground. He doesn’t go easily, but Steve’s always been good at hand-to-hand, even with an Iron Man suit involved. 

Once Steve has Tony in a headlock on the ground, he wrestles him into a position where he can’t move, all limbs trapped by Steve’s. “ _ Talk  _ to me, Tony!” Steve shouts, aware that people are starting to find them. He can hear shouting. 

All of the noise gets drowned out when Tony finally relents. “Your  _ Bucky,”  _ he snaps, and Steve’s blood runs cold at the venom in the words, “killed my  _ parents.” _

Steve goes limp, shock rendering him useless. Tony breaks free, leaping to his feet and coming to stand over Steve, a glowing repulsor aimed straight for Steve’s face. He doesn’t shoot. His faceplate comes up instead and he stares down at Steve. Steve doesn’t react. He’s staring off at nothing, chest heaving at the fast-paced breaths shaking his chest. Then he comes to and scrambles backwards, out of the line of fire.

Tony’s eyes follow him, palm still raised and burning. Steve fish-mouths, and then his face drops, lips parting and eyebrows pulling together. “Tony…” he begins, and Tony snarls. 

“Don’t you fucking give me that Hydra bullshit, Steve. He  _ killed  _ them,” Tony bites. 

Steve slowly gets to his feet, palms out and facing up, stance soft but cautious. “Tony, listen. Nothing I say is going to fix this or ease your pain,” he begins. 

“Not a good start,” Tony takes a step forward, but stops when Steve takes a hasty step back, face clouding over. 

He stops and scowls, waiting for Steve to continue. After taking a deep breath, he does. “You know him, Tony. You’ve spent time with him, you made a new  _ arm  _ for him. You know he’s a good guy. He wouldn’t do that intentionally. I didn’t know, and I highly doubt he’s made the connection from them to you,” he says quietly. 

Tony narrows his eyes, chest heaving. There’s sweat running down his forehead and his eyes are still wild, his right eye already swelling with bruising. He huffs out a breath, and it’s only then that Steve notices how much Tony’s shaking. The arm that’s pointed at him is wavering, but not with indecision. Tony’s shoulders are rising and falling too much to just be exertion; he’s genuinely having trouble breathing. 

“Tony?” Steve asks, taking a cautious step forwards. “Tony, breathe,” he tries, edging towards his friend. 

He moves quickly when Tony collapses, knees caving in, and catches him before he hits the floor. Tony’s gone pale, and his breaths are now coming in quick gasps. Steve’s hands flutter uselessly over him, before he takes a deep breath and settles onto his knees, supporting Tony’s head and pushing him up into a sitting position. It scares him how easily Tony is letting himself be manhandled, and it gives him an idea of how bad this panic attack is. 

Steve guides Tony’s head down to settle between his knees and keeps a hand on his back, which aches as it touches the cold metal. “Tony, breathe man, c’mon. You’ve got to try to regulate your breathing,” he says. He watches in concern as Tony shakes his head and grits his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut. 

He huffs out a breath, and  _ fuck,  _ he’s trying to laugh this off. It doesn’t work. Steve moves a little closer, but doesn’t touch him. “Tony, listen, you’re having a panic - “

“I  _ know,”  _ Tony rasps out, voice cracking. He’s desperately trying to breathe. 

Steve’s heart lurches. He can only watch as Tony slowly regains control of himself, and then slumps back as his breathing slowly returns to normal. He can only watch as Tony drags himself back up, his walls slamming back up around him. He can only watch as Tony shoves Steve away and storms off down the corridor, boots clanking on the ground. 

  
He gets up when he can, knees clicking, and trails back through the hallways towards Bucky’s room, trying to stave off a panic attack of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> various panic attacks, flashback to electrocution (sort of), medical procedure aaand descriptions of violence.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings/translations in end notes. (if you haven't listened to Hey You by Pink Floyd...You should)

When Bucky wakes up, there’s no pain. And...that’s new. He waits for his head to stop spinning so much before he opens his eyes. There’s a mask covering his mouth and a needle in his hand, and there’s someone sitting to his right. His eyes open and - oh. There’s the pain. It’s dull, barely anything, and he can ignore it as easily as the asset could. He turns his head slowly - happily realising he’s in the room they said he would wake up in - and looks at Steve, who’s slumped in his chair, head hanging down. He’s asleep. 

Something thumps hard in his throat when Bucky’s eyes focus. Steve is wearing a hoodie, but Bucky can see that his breathing is slightly uneven like he’s having trouble with his chest or he’s having a nightmare. His lip is healing from a split and parts of his face are swollen and bruised. His knuckles are split open, slowly knitting back together. Two of the knuckles are swollen, very obviously broken.

Bucky clenches and unclenches his jaw, and then the nurse from before comes in, a tired look on her face. His attention snaps to her and she hovers by the door, startled. “Sergeant Barnes, I didn’t expect you to be awake. How are you feeling?” she asks, moving towards his cot with soft steps. She talks quietly, glancing at Steve and realising that he’s asleep. Bucky likes her. 

“Fine. How long was I out? What happened to Steve?” he asks. And then it slowly hits him - the surgery was completed. 

He tears his gaze away from the nurse to look at his left shoulder. It’s as they said it would be; the socket is bandaged, but this time he knows what’s underneath it. He tests the muscles there, winces at the tenderness of the healing wound. He can feel the metal, but it’s not uncomfortable. The surgeons did a good job. He looks back at the nurse and waits for her to answer his questions. 

“For about eight hours and Captain Rogers asked me not to tell you. He said he wanted to explain.” She winces at the end, like she doesn’t want to keep the secret. 

Bucky doesn’t push. He nods and feels the drowsiness in his limbs. Fuck, he hates waking up after being sedated. He swallows past his dry throat and the nurse moves forward, grabbing a glass of water and taking the mask off his face. He takes the water eagerly, and she moves the bed up so he can sit up enough to drink it. He feels his stitches pull a little, but it’s nothing to worry about. Steve’s still sleeping, but he’s twitching now, face pulled into a frown. 

The nurse checks over Bucky’s vitals, asks to take his bandages off so she can change them and check on his stitches. He asks about the ones from where his bones were reinforced, and she explains that he can start walking around in a few days. Those cuts should be healed well enough by then. He can put his arm on safely in two days. He perks up at that and peeks at his now exposed shoulder. 

There’s iodine all around the wound, and the stump is criss-crossed with both old scars and new, tidy ones. He knows they’ll heal to nothingness within two weeks. He smiles and brings his hand up to poke at the metal socket. It doesn’t hurt, and he takes a moment to wonder at it. The nurse is watching him with soft eyes, and he almost feels like laughing. She replaces the bandages. And then Steve wakes up. 

He straightens up with a gasp, eyes flying open, and he stares around, clearly disoriented. “Steve. Steve, you’re alright. Look at me,” Bucky says, voice stern. He casts the nurse a look, and she rushes out of the room to leave them alone. Steve lets out a raspy whine, clutching at his sides and sinking back down into the chair. He doesn’t look at Bucky. 

Bucky frowns and shuffles on the bed, sitting up a bit more. “Steve?” he asks. 

Steve looks up, and his eyes are watery. “Hey, Buck. How’re you feelin’?” His voice is wobbly. 

Bucky sets him with a stern look. “Why’re you all banged up?” 

“Got in a fight,” Steve shrugs, and he pulls the sweater sleeves down to cover his knuckles. He takes a shallow breath and drops Bucky’s eyes before elaborating. “With Tony. In his suit.”

Bucky frowns, hard. It makes no sense to him. “Why?” Some sort of commotion has started in the hallway; there are raised, angry voices.

  
Steve brings up a hand and rubs his eyes, shrugging slowly. He nearly winces, and Bucky figures there’s some damage to his ribs. “Um,” Steve starts, looking uncomfortable. “Well. He found something out that he didn’t take too well.” The yelling gets closer, and something that sounds a lot like one of Tony’s repulsors goes off. 

Bucky is so confused. And tired. He just wants to go back to sleep and let his body finish burning the anesthesia out. But he can’t, because Steve looks like he’s going to cry. “What was it?” It’s like dragging a brick out of a wall. 

Steve closes his eyes. 

The door gets blown off its hinges. 

Iron Man storms into the room and Bucky’s on red alert, sitting up straight and ignoring the pain flaring through him. Steve’s already in front of him, looking like he’s going to fall over even as he readies himself for another fight. Bucky observes Tony, watches the way his chest is rising and falling, how his palms are pointed right at Steve and glowing with deadly blasts. 

Bucky grits his teeth and speaks up. “Tony?” 

It’s a bad idea. He knows that the moment Steve tenses up even more, and then he lunges at Tony as the man leaps into the air, clearly intent on sending a blast straight at Bucky. The blast hits the ceiling and Steve takes Tony to the ground. Bucky can only watch, paralysed, until he’s ripping the needle out of his hand and getting up off the cot. His stitches pull, but remain intact. It’s been tested; he heals faster with adrenalin coursing through him. And he’s got a whole hell of a lot of that right now. 

He’s not fast enough - his knees are still wobbly and he gets head rush from standing up too quick after laying down for so long - and Tony gets the upper hand. Bucky watches in horror as Tony slams a hand into Steve’s side and fires a blast from his repulsors.  At such close range, it burns right through Steve’s skin - Bucky can smell the burning flesh - and the hit sends him flying into the wall. He goes through it. Bucky moves faster then, takes advantage of Tony being tired and hurt, and he kicks at him as he tries to get back up, sending him sprawling back onto the floor. It breaks one of Bucky’s stitches. He feels the blood trickling down his back. He ignores it. 

“Tony, what happened? What are you doing?” he asks, desperately trying to make sense of this. He’s clearly missed a lot. 

Tony’s infuriated, Bucky can practically feel it radiating off of him. “Don’t tell me you don’t know,” Tony snarls, and Bucky is very lost. 

“I  _ don’t,”  _ is all Bucky gets out before Tony tackles him around the waist and throws him onto the ground. More blood starts a pool around him. His shoulder’s fine, but his back is slowly being re-torn up. 

“Oh, please, like you didn’t use us all from the start,” Tony snaps, and Bucky wants to  _ cry.  _

“I didn’t, Tony. You’ve got to believe me!” he tries, at the same time lashing out and trying to dislodge Tony. Steve comes back then, face the perfect picture of rage. Bucky feels fear settle in the pit of his stomach, because Steve looks about ready to  _ kill.  _ And that’s never good. 

Steve’s hands slam down onto Tony’s shoulders and Tony gets hauled back, sprawling into the wall and sliding onto the floor. Bucky can hear the pained huff of breath from where he’s laying. Steve doesn’t stop. He storms back over to Tony, aims a kick at his side and then grabs his shoulders again before Tony can recover, dragging him up and slamming him back into the wall. He doesn’t stop, just brings back a fist and crunches it into Tony’s faceplate. Bucky can only stare in horror as Steve’s hand comes away broken and reveals a solid dent in the faceplate. 

Tony’s head lolls and Steve drops him. Bucky winces at the sound Tony’s suit makes when it hits the ground. Steve’s breathing hard and the side of his sweater has been burnt through by the blast, revealing burnt and bloody skin. Bucky wheezes and tries to sit up. Steve’s attention snaps to him the moment he moves, and Bucky goes cold at the darkness in Steve’s eyes. He looks so far gone. And then it clears, like a storm, and he rushes to Bucky’s side, helping him up. Bucky moves over to the cot and gets on it, limbs all weak. 

“What was he talking about, Steve?” he asks. 

Steve doesn’t get the time to answer, because then people are rushing into the room, weapons raised. Natalia has her gun pointed at Tony and Clint has an arrow pointed at Steve. Bucky can see agents lingering in the hallway, and Sam is with them, a nervous look on his face. Bucky clenches his jaw and tries to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of blood sliding down his back. Everything stings, even his eyes. 

Tony grunts on the floor and struggles to sit up straight. Bucky worries about him, wonders how bad the damage to his head is. Steve slides in front of his vision, standing in between him and the arrow pointed at Bucky, but keeping his attention on Tony. Bucky feels a twinge of annoyance, but then Tony stands up, leaning heavily on the wall. 

“Proud of yourself, Cap?” Tony grits out, venom filling his voice. 

Bucky feels cold. He watches Steve narrow his eyes threateningly, watches Natalia and Clint share a look. Natalia makes the first move out of all of them, clicking the safety off of her gun. Everything’s moving slow. Bucky would really like to have his metal arm right now. He doesn’t feel safe. He feels exposed in the hospital gown, feels unsure of what’s happening. He has no weapons, apart from himself. His heart is beating too fast.

“Are you?” Steve shoots back. Tony goes to lunge at him, but Natalia sends off a warning shot and everything goes still again. 

“He knows what he did,” Tony spits. 

“I really don’t,” Bucky speaks up. 

Tension crackles in the air. Clint’s arm doesn’t waver from when he points the arrow directly at Steve’s chest. Nervous sweat starts to mix with the blood on Bucky’s back. Then Tony wheezes out a sarcastic laugh, and his faceplate slides open. His nose is crushed, his eyebrow is split and he has a solid black eye. Bucky bites his bottom lip, eyes going wide. 

“This ring any bells?” Tony asks, voice bland but tight with underlying pain. 

A holographic screen shines out from somewhere on his suit, and a video starts. Bucky feels ice cloud his veins the moment it does. He makes the connection the moment he sees the car collide with the tree. He swallows back bile as the bike rolls up, the stand being kicked out. He doesn’t need to watch to know what happens next. He does anyway. He watches himself take on Howard Stark and smash his face in, watches as he makes it look like an accident, placing him back against the steering wheel. Watches himself go around the the other side of the car and strangle Maria Stark. Watches himself come back around, look the camera right in the eye, and shoot it. Watches as Tony’s gaze never once wavers from his face. 

He feels a tear roll down his cheek. He clenches his jaw. His eyes flicker to Steve, but he can’t see his face. His shoulders are taut. Bucky looks back at Tony and he really, really doesn’t know what to say. Tony blinks, incredulous, and Bucky can only watch as the hard exterior crumbles and pain pours out like mist, knocking the wind out of everyone in the room. 

“Do you even remember them?” Tony asks, voice rough. 

Bucky can feel the weight of every ear straining for his answer. “I remember all of them,” he croaks. 

Tony turns and pushes past everyone, shouldering his way past the people in the hall and disappearing. Bucky’s eyes glaze over as he stares at where Tony had been standing, and he can’t find the energy to pay attention anymore. There’s nothing to hear anyway; everyone is silent. 

Steve speaks eventually, getting everyone to leave. Bucky’s wounds have stopped bleeding. He won’t need more stitches. He has no idea how much time passes, but Steve comes over to sit on the edge of the bed. His face is broken, and Bucky can’t bear to meet his eyes. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks Bucky has only one thing to say to him. 

“I want my arm,” he rasps out, and Steve just nods. 

Steve doesn’t leave the room, but a nurse comes in with a silver case, clearly struggling with the weight. Steve takes it and thanks her. She leaves. Steve opens the case, and there it is. Bucky waves Steve away, so he simply sits down in the chair beside the bed. Bucky takes the arm out, and it doesn’t take long for him to figure out how to attach it. It clicks into place, like a massive weight sliding off his shoulders. 

He rolls his shoulders, still tender, and stretches his metal arm out, watching the way the light bounces off it. His nerves are tingling as he flexes his new fingers and then clenches them into a fist. He can feel Steve’s gaze burning into him, but he ignores him. He focuses on the feel of his arm, gets used to the light weight of it, and bends his elbow, bringing it into his side. He observes the plates sliding together, feels the strength radiating through him. He feels whole. He blinks and looks at Steve. 

He feels strangely calm. “I want to rest,” he hears himself saying. 

Steve blanches, must see the emptiness on his face. “I’m going to stay here,” he tells him. 

Buck just nods and lays back against the pillows. It’s too soft. The blood is uncomfortable, sticky, but he ignores it. He knows Steve knows it’s there, but he doesn’t say anything. Bucky closes his eyes, metal arm resting on his chest. 

*

_The burning iron whip lashes across his back again the moment they decide it’s hot enough. He screams._ _It’s hoarse and barely there, and he coughs up blood after, but he can’t help it._

_ “What are you?”  _

_ “Fuck. You,” he grits out. _

_There’s painful silence as they heat the whip up again. There’s no warning, and then his flesh is sizzling and he’s throwing up because of the pain and the smell of it. Burning him._ _The whip returns to the coals._

_ “What are you?” _

_ “Fuck...Off.” He can’t wipe the bile away because his wrist is bolted to the floor.  _

_ The whip doesn’t come. The reluctant, cold relief is immediately drowned out when a boot collides with his flayed side. He sprawls onto the ground. His wrist cracks and breaks as it twists the wrong way, held down by the restraints. He howls. He writhes, screaming as the concrete makes contact with his open back, and he tries to pull himself into a position where only his knees touch the ground.  _

_ “What are you?” _

_ He sobs, the sound ripping itself from his gut. One of them stands in front of him and dangles the glowing whip in front of his eyes. He flinches backwards, chokes out another sob as the movement tugs at his broken wrist joints. He doesn’t answer. He can’t.  _

_ “Take him to the chair. No wipes yet, just electricity.” _

_His wrist is unbolted from the floor, and they drag him along the ground out of the room. He screams and writhes, his wounds causing him so much pain there is no_ _way he can describe it. The whip lashes out as he’s dragged away, and it catches the bottom of of his foot. He can’t even determine where the pain is now, because it’s_ everywhere. 

_ They throw him into the chair. He tries to arch away from the pressure on his back, but they’re strapping him in and the metal closes over his head. The electricity starts up with no warning, and then he can’t see. There is nothing but pain. When the flashing and screaming stops, he’s left whimpering and groaning in the chair.  _

_ “Who are you?”  _

_ They burned that out of him a long time ago. “No one,” he replies, because it’s true. He doesn’t  _ know.

_ “What are you?”  _

_ He doesn’t know the answer to that one, doesn’t know what they want from him when they ask that. He’s tried everything he can think of. Nothing satisfies them. A sigh. Fear clutches at his heart.  _

_ “Again.” _

_ Electricity burns through him, and they ask again. “What are you?” _

_ “Nothing,” he gasps out. _

_ A small hum. “Wrong.” A pause. It stays quiet. He fumbles for another answer, desperate to get it right and be spared from this. And then...A small flicker of something. A memory? But not quite. Has he...Has he done this before?  _

_ “A soldier,” he blurts, words scratchy and barely there. He’s fairly certain they’ve destroyed his windpipe.  _

_ Silence. Then: “What is a solider?” _

_ “A - A weapon,” he rasps, heart beating way too fast in his chest. “An asset to its o-owners,” he continues, dragging the answers from his mind. What? Why does he know this? Where the fuck did that come from? _

_ Another hum. “Wipe it.” _

_ The whirring starts up again, and more electricity than he’s ever felt before courses through his brain. (Wait, is that true?) It seems to go on for years and years. When he comes to, he doesn’t remember how he got here. Who...What? Someone speaks. _

_ > желание _

_ His body jolts in the chair and he feels pinpricks of pain all over his body. He feels numb at the same time.  _

_ > живой. Семнадцать.  Рассвет. Печь.  Девять. Добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один. грузовой вагон.  _

_ A pause.  _

_ > Доброе утро, солдат. _

_ > Я готов отвечать. _

_ It replies, voice strangely harsh and broken. It doesn’t question why. It gets up when it is released from the chair, and it follows its handlers. It’s limping, but after a sharp look from one of the handlers, it walks with anything but perfect, silent control. The metal arm is re-attached, and mission parameters are given. It collects the weapons and steps out into the snow to go to the transport vehicle.  _

<>

Steve blinks his eyes open the moment Bucky’s breathing picks up way past normal - Steve hadn’t been sleeping, simply dozing - and then stops. Steve frowns, going cold. Something is very, very wrong. He stands up quietly and walks over to stand beside the bed. Bucky doesn’t seem to be breathing, and his face is so blank he almost looks dead. Steve is about to call for a nurse and try wake Bucky the fuck up, but then Bucky’s eyes snap open and - and they’re not Bucky’s eyes at all. 

The metal fist slams into the wall inches from Steve’s head, and he slams his palms into Bucky’s chest on instinct, pushing him back, away from him. Bucky barely stumbles, coming back at him with fire blinding his eyes. 

“Buck, c’mon, it’s me! It’s Steve!” He tries again, again and again but nothing is piercing the blankness in Bucky’s mind. 

Bucky comes at him over and over, getting hits in every now and then, moving steadily forwards as Steve is slowly cornered. His back touches the wall, and the suddenness of it is distracting. It barely makes a crack in his defense, but it’s enough for the Winter Soldier. Steve doesn’t get time to dwell on the fact that that’s exactly who Bucky is right now before skin-warm metal is closing around his throat and slamming him into the wall. 

Steve can’t breathe. 

He chokes, hands coming up to scramble at the metal and pull at the iron grip, but it’s useless. He lashes out, using his whole body to kick at the Winter Soldier, but the assassins face doesn’t even twitch as he moves out of the way of Steve’s miscalculated attack. 

Steve’s starting to see black spots and his face is burning and red. He can’t  _ breathe.  _

_ “Bucky.”  _ He chokes out, feeling his fingers start to slip from the metal arm. 

Steve’s staring at his best friend, his love, but the Winter Soldier stares right back. 

Steve closes his eyes, but then forces them open again and desperately tries to gasp in one last breath of air. The Winter Soldier's gaze doesn’t twitch from his even once, and Steve just stares and stares and stares at Bucky until all he can see is black. 

*

  
He wakes up crumpled on the floor, unable to swallow around his bruised throat. His eyes are watering, but maybe those are just tears. Bucky’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings; details of violence/torture/dehumanization. 
> 
> translations; (I'm sure you can guess, but)   
> желание. живой. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один. грузовой вагон. - Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freightcar.  
> Доброе утро, солдат. - Good morning, Soldier.   
> Я готов отвечать. - Ready to comply.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in end notes!!!!!!!!

It gets out of the building once the Captain collapses to the ground, unconscious. It’s unsure why it leaves the Captain alive, but it can’t find any reason to kill him. There are no orders. It has no recollection of mission parameters, no recollection of any form of command. So it leaves. It has to take out a few guards to get clothing - it had been wearing a hospital gown? - and some weapons. It has somehow acquired a new arm. It doesn’t let itself think about anything other than escaping. 

It’s a lot easier than it expected. Once out and several blocks away, it clears its mind and pulls up the hoodie of the jersey it’d stolen, hiding its face. It wonders why no one had been sent to stop it, but that leads to wondering why it had been in the building - now identified as the Avengers Tower -  in the first place, and that hurts its head too much. 

So instead, it slowly works on shutting down any and all thought and it walks. It takes back roads, cuts through alleyways and moves like the shadows. It feels like there’s something seriously wrong, something in the back of its mind telling it to turn around and go back. It’s missing a lot of memory - it can’t remember...Anything, really. Like it’s just come out of cryo and been through a wipe. There’s none of that residual weakness lingering in its limbs, though, and no crackling electricity spasming through its brain or leaving black spots in its vision. 

And then it hits it. 

It requires maintenance. Clearly, it has been out on the field for too long. It hasn’t reported back to its handlers and it’s been wandering. It still ignores how it got into the Avengers Tower, and why the Captain simply gave himself up, completely gave himself over to the mercy of the asset. Mercy that had been granted. It wonders what form of punishment awaits it back at the base. 

The thought catches in its mind, sticks like blood under fingernails.   

It’s in an alleyway, hands raised to pull itself onto a fire escape and make its way onto the roof, when it pauses. It stares at the brick wall in front of it and frowns. It slowly lowers its arms, leaving them to hang limply at its sides. The metal arm hangs lighter than it used to. Its eyes drift, until it’s glaring at the ground, at its poorly fitting boots. Then it takes a step back and looks around. 

It doesn’t want to be punished. Why…? When did it gain this sort of control over its mind? When did it start  _ wanting?  _ It brings its flesh hand up to lightly touch its temple and startles at another realisation. When did it start referring to its body as  _ its?  _

“Son, are you alright?”

It whips around, gun already out and pointed at the forehead of the woman hunched against the wall. She’s covered in grime and has just a thin, holey blanket draped over her knees. The only thing that stops him from pulling the trigger on instinct is the distraction of the soft blue glow in between the shifting plates of its arm. To the woman’s credit, she doesn’t scream. It lowers the gun, eyes flickering from the blue luminescence to the woman and back again. 

“What sorta trouble ‘ve you got yerself in?” comes the woman’s scratchy voice again, wobbly with exhaustion. 

The asset stares at her and then blinks slowly. Trouble? It supposes it is in trouble. “I...think I ran away from somewhere important,” it tells the woman. It immediately wonders why that’s true, and why it told her. It wonders why it didn’t shoot the woman. 

She just stares at it, and then lifts her eyes to the sky and sighs. “You gonna go back?”

It looks at the wall again, studies the moss crawling through the cracks. “Can’t,” it replies, and then it hauls itself up onto the fire escape. 

“Where’re you gonna go, then?” she calls out, but it doesn’t look back. 

It gets onto the roof, feeling the pull of recently acquired injuries, and looks around. It takes a deep breath. It wants to walk to the edge of the roof, get an idea of the terrain, but anyone could see it. It moves to the middle of the roof, instead. It has no idea what to do, so it sinks to its knees and simply stares at nothing. Then it starts to try and sort through the minefield that is its mind.

<>

There’s hands on his upper arms, warm on his skin that feels so, so cold. He can feel that residual ache in his bones, reminding him he’s been laying on the floor for a while. Something twists in his throat, in his chest and his stomach. He has to fight not to throw up at the memories that come crashing down onto his head like a collapsing building. His whole body jolts, and he forces his eyes open, finds himself staring into wildly concerned brown eyes. 

Sam blinks slowly and removes his hands. He’d clearly been trying to wake Steve up. Steve blinks back and lifts a hand to his throat, tracing his fingers over the bruises he knows are there. His eyes slide shut again. He wants to curl in on himself, shut everything and everyone out and just drift back into the blackness he’d once been so willing to get consumed by. 

He sits up instead, pressing his back against the wall. “Is he gone?” he croaks, forcing his eyes back open. 

Sam nods. “Tony gave the order not to stop him. He took down a few guards, took weapons and clothes. Tony refused to track him outside of the Tower. Natasha’s on it now, though.”

“Something triggered him in his sleep,” Steve finds himself whispering. Sam makes a noise low in his throat like he tried to hold back a hum of sympathy. 

“He tried to kill you again,” Sam states, voice quiet. 

Steve frowns, forcing his mind to replay what had happened. “No,” he answers honestly. “I think he just panicked.” 

“You think this is temporary?” Sam asks.

Steve doesn’t want to think about that too hard. “It has to be,” he says, before closing his eyes. 

It slips over him like a blanket over your head when you’re hiding from the dark. His breathing evens out and when he opens his eyes, Captain America hauls himself to his feet and strides out of the room. Sam follows, radiating quiet alarm. His face is the perfect picture of calm, though, like he knows exactly what Steve’s doing. 

“We need to find him before they do,” Steve says. “Where are the others?” 

Sam has to quicken his stride to keep up with him. Steve glances down every hallway they pass, like someone’s gonna be there to attack them. His shoulders are tight and his head is held high. “I think most of them are on the communal floor,” Sam says. 

Steve nods. “Jarvis, I need you to tell the available Avengers to meet in the kitchen of the communal floor,” he orders. 

“Right away, sir. Is there a reason of why that I should add to the message?” Jarvis replies immediately. 

“No,” Steve says shortly, and steps into the elevator. 

Sam comes to stand beside him and the elevator starts moving towards the communal floor. Sam wants to say something - Steve can see it in the way he’s standing, slightly angled towards Steve, and his jaw’s working - but he stays silent. The air is tight, thick with the realisation of just how dire the situation has become. Steve and Bucky had wrapped themselves in a cocoon and ignored the outside world, which was still reeling after the fall of the Triskelion and the release of the files. And Bucky had been  _ seen,  _ people had asked Tony if he was in the Tower. He was in the public eye, whether he liked it or not. Hydra was still out there, regrouping and looking for their asset. 

Steve clenches his jaw at the thought and promptly drives all distractions into the ground, burying them six feet under. He sets his mind to the task at hand and stalks out of the elevator the second the doors open. Clint, Bruce and Natasha are there, all hovering around in the kitchen. Bruce looks particularly uncomfortable, like he can pick up on the emotions roiling in the air. Tony isn’t there. 

Steve sets his jaw and ignores the sting. He levels them all with an icy look, but he softens his expression when he sees the guarded hardness in their eyes. “You all know what happened?” he asks. 

Natasha lifts her chin, raises an eyebrow slightly. Her arms are folded across her chest and she’s in her tac gear. “The Winter Soldier was triggered back into commission. How?”

“As far as I know, he had a memory when he slept that caused him to forget again,” Steve says, struggling to keep his voice steady. 

Natasha nods and then narrows her eyes. “So a simple dream can turn him back into Hydra’s assassin?” she questions, voice sharp. 

Steve feels it like a physical blow to his chest. Sam steps forward, eyes flickering across his face before he turns to Natasha. “Let’s deal with that  _ after,  _ all right?” he suggests. 

Natasha gives another short nod in agreement and refocuses on Steve. “So what are we going to do, Captain? Tony refuses to help us track him. We want to find him quickly, that’s not exactly my area of expertise.”

Steve grits his teeth together as he thinks, searching Natasha’s eyes like they’ll hold the answer. Then he looks at Clint, who’s leaning against the counter a little way away from them. At his attention, Clint stands up a little straighter and waits for the coming question. “You’re willing to help us find him?” Steve asks.

Clint just nods, an easy shrug lifting his shoulders. “It might be the Winter Soldier, Cap, but if Bucky means this much to you…” He lets it hang there, and the fact that Clint is helping him because it’s Bucky and not because it’s the Winter Soldier makes Steve feel warm. 

“I think I can get into the tracking systems without Tony,” Bruce speaks up. 

Steve turns to acknowledge him, and Bruce shuffles his feet. “Would you?” Steve asks. 

“I know what it’s like to have someone you can’t control in your head,” Bruce says simply, and his face takes on a steely resolve. 

Steve nods. “Alright then. I want Nat and Sam on the ground, try not to draw any attention. Clint and I will take the rooftops and Bruce, you stay in touch with us if you can work the tracking system.” He rolls out the orders, and everyone nods. The seriousness drips away for a moment, and Steve feels the mask on his face clear. “I...I don’t think we have much time,” he adds, voicing the icy feeling in his stomach. 

“Better get moving then,” comes a guarded voice from behind him. 

Steve spins around, already on the defense. His skin is still healing from the burns, itching like fire ants are crawling all over him. Tony drags his eyes over the damage to Steve’s body, his eyes giving nothing away. It’s the first time Steve’s ever seen Tony look so... Cold. His nose is clearly broken too, creating dark purple bruises around it and under his eyes. His lip is split, but it’s been patched up. He’s wearing dark clothes, long sleeved, probably hiding more wounds. Steve has to fight the urge to wince. He holds Tony’s gaze and watches the ice slowly melt in his eyes. 

Tony ends up looking defeated, his shoulders slumping forward, and his eyes drop to the ground. His mouth twists and he scowls, but he looks chagrined. “Look, Cap....” he begins, and Steve feels shock hit him like a metal bar. Or Iron Man’s fist. “I’m not sorry. Your...friend killed my parents. Whether or not that was his choice, I can’t find it in myself to forgive him for that. I just can’t,” he says. Steve has to clench his teeth together so he doesn’t talk. The room is heavy with silence. Tony takes a deep breath and looks up, straight into Steve’s eyes. “But I’m not  _ heartless.  _ I’ll help you find him. I’ll even still pay for his therapy. Just. Don’t expect me to be all friendly to him,” he finishes, and Steve can see the mask sliding back over his face. 

He moves towards him in a hurry and clasps Tony’s forearm. Tony stays still, frozen at the contact, but he doesn’t pull away. “Thank you, Tony,” Steve says sincerely, before stepping back. He can’t exactly forgive and forget either, but he won’t turn down Tony’s help. “If you’re helping us, you can stay with - “

“Jarvis?” Tony cuts him off. Steve goes quiet, gritting his jaw so he doesn’t bite out a remark and start another argument so soon. “Bring up the footage, please.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

One of Jarvis’ cameras shines a holographic screen in the middle of the room, showing CCTV footage of Bucky walking away quickly from the Tower. He’s wearing a hoodie with the hood up and shrouding his face, but it’s definitely him. It’s also definitely the Winter Soldier. Steve’s skin prickles at the way he walks. Bucky’s holding his right arm a little further away from his body than his left, which tells Steve that he’s acquired a gun. Steve moves his eyes to another clip, the most recent one, which shows Bucky disappearing down another street. There’s no more footage after that, which means that he either started taking notice of cameras and avoiding them, or that he’s still in that area. 

“Alright, that’s where we’re starting. Bruce and Tony, you’re both alright to stay here?” Steve asks, already itching to head out. 

Bruce nods and Tony just sits down at the table, eyes on the holographic screen. Steve is still hesitant to leave, and searches Toy’s face one last time. It’s still blank, but he can see the tiredness etched into his skin and decides he should probably leave him alone for now. But still...“Thank you, Tony,” he says again. Tony just gives him a look, but his eyes are softer. He nods. 

“Alright. Let’s go,” Steve announces, and heads for the elevator. 

Clint, Natasha and Sam follow him, and they head for what Tony like to call the ‘Gear Up’ floor. It’s the very top one, where the quinjet is kept. They each head to their respective spaces, and Steve can hear Natasha grabbing guns and changing into street clothes. Clint is doing the same, unable to take his bow and remain inconspicuous. Sam has a spot for his wings, but he simply grabs a gun and puts a comm in. They’re all moving quickly. Steve changes his clothes, which are bloody and torn up, and wets a cloth with water from a  bottle. He washes his face and neck quickly, barely wincing at the tenderness, and then puts his comm in. He reaches for his shield, but decides against it. 

They regroup at the elevator doors, but Natasha hands Steve a gun before they go in. She glares at him until he takes it. “Just in case, Steve,” she says. “I know you didn’t grab any weapons.”

He can’t deny that, so he simply tucks the gun out of sight and steps into the elevator. As soon as they’re on the streets, they split up and move directly to where Bucky was last seen. It’s a twenty minute walk, but they’re moving fast. Steve can feel ice seeping into his blood, though, creeping through his veins. Something is very, very wrong. 

<>

It’s still there, on the roof. It doesn’t feel like moving. It’s flesh fingers are frozen and it’s been staring at the same place for a while now. Its ears are ringing and its back aches dully, an annoying pressure on his bones and in his skin. It still hasn’t been able to think about the new arm. Its mind feels dangerously numb, and it feels what can only be described as floaty. Like its not all there. It blinks slowly, but it has to think about it hard enough to carry out the action. There’s something in the back of its mind that says it’s missing a  _ lot  _ of time. It doesn’t really...remember anything. Almost everything is blank, like it’s come out of cryo and it’s on default until it receives its mission. 

But it knows it’s not going to receive a mission. There are no handlers, and it was in the Avengers Tower. It has a new arm, and it’s on a roof somewhere and there is no one here. It feels empty. Numb. It shifts its eyes from their spot and moves them to a new one. It lays down, eventually, and lets its eyes slide shut. It takes a deep breath, and wonders what it’s supposed to do if it has no purpose. 

It comes to like a bucket of ice water splashing over its face. 

There had always been the final order. A last resort, a fall-back mission set to go in the back of its mind. If there ever were no handlers, if the asset had nowhere to go and nothing to do and it had no other orders, it was to end its life by all means necessary. Luckily for the asset, it has acquired a gun. It feels a weight slide off its shoulders with the sudden clarity of purpose. It feels exhaustion, suddenly, the type of tired it has carried for seventy years. Maybe more. It takes another deep breath before clasping flesh fingers around the gun. 

Keeping its eyes closed on the ground, it flicks the safety off and lifts the gun to its temple. It feels...peace. It’s finally,  _ finally  _ finished. It can rest. Its finger hovers over the trigger, hesitating. There’s still something there, telling it to stop. It’s missing something, something very important.

That, too, comes back like ice water and startling clarity. 

And then he’s suffocating, seeing the events play back through his mind. He sees his own metal hand gripping Steve’s neck, squeezing, set on ending his life. Because Steve had been his mission. He feels the fuzzy darkness of the asset slide away entirely, remembers everything he had recovered and every event since then. He sifts through the memories, and opens his eyes. His finger hovers over the trigger as he stares up at the sky. 

He should do it. He’s dangerous. A simple dream had caused him to nearly kill Steve. Steve, who he loves so, so much. He hurt him again. He wonders how much  _ this _ will hurt him. Finding Bucky’s body on the roof with his brains blown out. He huffs out another shaky breath and closes his eyes again. 

He presses the barrel of the gun harder into his temple.

<>

By the time they’ve searched the whole ground level of the area Bucky  _ must  _ be in, another thirty minutes have passed. Sam is in the sky at this point, searching rooftops, and Natasha and Clint are covering the ground and the buildings. Steve’s about to lose his mind, but he’s still searching alleyways. The one he’s just walked into looks empty, but he searches it anyways, and nearly jumps out of his skin when a bundle of blankets moves. 

An old woman peers out from under the blanket and narrows her eyes at him. “Y’lookin’ for somethin’?” she croaks. She starts blinking rapidly, like her sight is blurry. 

Steve doesn’t have time for this, no time at all, but he has to try. “Yeah, uh, my...friend’s gone missing. About this tall, long brown hair, blue eyes, male. Metal arm?” He nearly doesn’t add that last part. 

She studies him for a moment, and his skin is itching, but he waits. Eventually, she points at a fire escape. “A man went up there a while ago. Looked troubled,” she gives him. Then she sighs like she’s already done with the conversation. 

Steve’s heart thuds so hard in his chest that he can feel it in his throat. He doesn’t even stop to tell the others what’s happening. He’s on the fire escape in a flash, hauling himself up and up till he’s on the roof. He almost doesn’t see him at first. It’s getting dark as he scans the immediate area, looking for someone sitting or standing. But then Bucky leaps to his feet, moving the gun he was holding to his temple, flicking the safety on by what seems pure habit. Steve doesn’t know what to do. He stands stock still. It takes all he has in him not to fall to his knees. Or run forward and rip the gun out of Bucky’s hand.

Because Bucky had been about to shoot himself. 

And Steve...Steve can’t even comprehend that. He doesn’t...He can’t…” _ Buck,”  _ he chokes out. 

Something flashes wildly in Bucky’s eyes before he’s passing the gun to his metal hand and lifting it back up to his temple. “Don’t watch this, Stevie,” is all he says. 

“Bucky, Buck, please. Please don’t. Bucky,” Steve can barely talk over the lump in his throat, let alone see through the tears that are welling up in his eyes. 

Bucky looks at him, eyes a steely grey. “Steve, I ain’t never gonna get better. I nearly _killed_ you. Multiple times. I nearly succeeded last time.” The metal plates of his hand twitch and shift, and luminescent blue glows from the cracks. His arm whirs quietly as he squares his shoulders and stands up a bit straighter.

Steve chokes on his breath and takes a step forward. But then Bucky’s finger hovers over the trigger, and Steve is frozen and colder than he ever was under the ice. Bucky lifts his chin, and the muscles in his jaw work as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat and Steve can’t do anything but stare as his best friend - the only person he’s  _ ever fucking loved  _ \- presses the gun harder to his temple and clicks the safety back off. 

Bucky’s eyes slide past Steve and focus on something far, far away from here. “You remember the summer before everything went to shit, Stevie?” It’s so quiet that even Steve with his enhanced hearing has to strain to hear it. 

Steve doesn’t answer, just blinks rapidly to try and clear his eyes. He swallows and chokes on nothing when Bucky  _ smiles,  _ as if everything’s alright. He looks stuck in that summer, and Steve swears his eyes look a little bluer,  the same colour as when he’d once painted them. 

“We were the happiest we’ve ever been, Stevie.” Bucky huffs a little laugh and Steve can’t help but let out the sob he’s been trying to hold back.

Bucky’s eyes snap back to Steve’s face and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down so hard he draws blood. “This is a good thing, Steve. I wasn’t meant to survive that fall. Wasn’t even meant to survive the 107th, Jesus.” Bucky seems to chew something over in his mind before speaking again. When he does, he looks so soft. He looks like he used to on the mornings - they spent on their worn couch, staying there for hours, Steve drawing and Bucky simply watching him. 

“You were always meant to be here, Steve, helping all these people. Your  _ friends.  _ The world.  _ Captain America. _ ” Bucky shudders through the last part, and closes his eyes like he can’t bear to look at Steve anymore. He lowers his head, but his hand never wavers where it’s clutching the gun so tightly, finger still hovering over the trigger. One twitch. That’d be all it took. 

Steve swallows and feels something in his chest shatter into a million pieces. Again. The first time it happened was when Bucky fell. “I ain’t nothing but a punk kid from Brooklyn, Buck,” Steve chokes out. He steps forwards. “And I can’t get by without a jerk like you.” He almost laughs and Bucky’s eyes flicker open, a frown carving into his face. 

Steve grips his gun and walks slowly towards Bucky, who looks so, so broken. “And as always, I’m with you till the end of the line,” Steve chuckles wetly. Bucky’s eyes go wide in horror as Steve lifts the loaded gun to his own temple and rests it there, safety off, finger on the trigger. 

Steve looks at him, an eery calm settling over him even though his body’s still shaking. “No plane heading to blow up half of the world this time, Buck.”

Bucky looks furious at first, then heart-wrenchingly sad. “Put the gun down, Steve.” His words are shaky and wet, his voice thick like he can’t comprehend how they got to this point. Steve doesn’t understand either. 

“End of the line, Buck. And right now, you’re the one who decides when that’s gonna be.” Steve’s voice isn’t even shaking anymore; he just sounds quietly broken.

Bucky grits his teeth, and tears are dripping down his face. “Don’t do this, Steve. This ain’t your choice to make. Put the gun down.” His whole body is shaking, but his left arm remains steady. 

“I’m not making any decisions for you, Buck. Just for me,” Steve shrugs.  He knows -  _ hopes  _ \- that this is enough to stop Bucky from doing what he wants to do right now. Bucky looks like he’s going to be sick. 

They stand there like that. Steve solid and quiet, Bucky shaking and furious. Guns to their heads, staring at each other like they’ve got all the time in the world. Like this is the last time they’ll ever see each other. They’re drinking each other in, chests heaving, throats constricting around the storm of emotions. 

  
Bucky makes the first move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suicidal idealisation, suicidal thoughts


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only two more chapters and an epilogue to go! Warnings in end notes.

_ They hand him a gun. He takes stock of the weapon quickly, taking in the magazine and the size and shape. He automatically determines the model. He curls his metal fingers around it, stares up at them with hollow eyes. The handlers stare back at him, eyes dark from behind their masks. He waits, wonders what they have in store for him now. The orders comes in English - a rare language around here. They clearly want him to understand.  _

_ “Shoot someone,” they order.  _

_ He clenches his jaw, but doesn’t hesitate. Ignoring the aching in his body like they expect of him, he lifts the gun, presses the barrel to his temple and shoots. The force of it knocks him back, will bruise his temple and leave him with a hell of a heachache, but the magazine was empty. He drops the gun with a clatter and squeezes his eyes shut, almost too tired to feel the disappointment welling up in his throat.  _

_ There’s Russian muttering again, but he blocks it all out. They haul him to his feet and unlock the chains from around his ankles. Then they drag him down the hallways and straight to the chair. He’s too tired to fight as they throw him onto it and lock him in. The metal closes around his head and the machines are humming, but no electricity courses through him just yet.  _

_ A man comes in, one he hasn’t seen before, even though he rings with familiarity. He stares at him, feeling sick to his stomach. He  _ hates  _ new people. He never knows what to expect from them. This one gives him questions.  _

_ “Why did you shoot yourself?”  _

_ It’s in English, but he doesn’t answer. He’s tried to kill himself countless times before this, they can’t really be surprised. His silence earns him a hard smack to the face. It doesn’t faze him, even though he bites the inside of his cheek. He’s had far, far worse. He turns his head back to stare at the man again, and awaits whatever comes next. Another question, mixed with a threat.  _

_ “Would you not rather get revenge? Answer this time or we’ll cut your other arm off, starting with the fingertips.” _

_ “A weapon has no use for revenge,” he croaks.  _

_ “Then what use does a weapon have for putting itself out of commision?” comes the next question, rapid and sharp.  _

_ He has to force himself not to close his eyes. “A weapon has no use for putting itself out of commision.” _

_ “Then why did it try?” _

It _. Fuck. That’s right; he’s supposed to be an it, a weapon. Everything’s been fuzzy the past three days after they took him - it - off ice. “It had forgotten its place,” it replies truthfully.  _

_ “And will it try again?” _

_ “It will do nothing unless commanded otherwise,” it says, voice slowly falling flat as it remembers what it is.  _

_ The man seems satisfied. “And if it is commanded to put itself out of commision?” _

_ “It will do so.” _

_ The man turns to someone in the room. “The weapon is needed for a mission in two days. Get it ready, don’t fuck this one up.” The man switched to Russian somewhere during the conversation. It hadn’t realised at first. It still understands. The man turns and leaves.  _

_ They move around it, the machine still humming and buzzing with promised pain. It stares straight ahead and awaits further command. Slowly, the metal comes away from the head, and it is commanded to stand. It does so. The man comes back in through the doors, and goes straight one of the technicians. It listens, because it has not been commanded not to. Which - no. It will do nothing unless commanded otherwise. The words still reach the ears, though.  _

_ “We can’t afford this to happen every time. We need a surefire way to know that it’ll be ready for deployment as soon as it’s defrosted.” _

_ “I don’t see how that’s possible -” _

_ “You’ve implanted sleeper commands, yes?” _

_ “Yes, but -” _

_ “Put more in. Make sure it can be ready as soon as it’s defrosted. We won’t have a week's warning the next time.” _

_ “Yessir.” _

_ It is commanded to sit. It does so.  _

_ “Operation implant activation codes in motion. Begin.” _

_ The metal closes around the head, and it screams. _

He clicks the safety back on with shaking hands and drops the gun. Steve stays staring at him for another second before doing the same. Relief burns through him, but Bucky keeps shaking. He can’t wrap his head around what just happened. Steve had been about to  _ shoot himself.  _ He grits his teeth together, still whirling from the memory - he’d thought he’d recovered all of them - and leaps forward. 

He takes Steve to the ground, presses him into the roof. “You asshole! It was my _choice,_ you can’t just do that _,”_ he spits. Steve just keeps staring up at him. He looks spaced out, like he can’t quite manage to focus now the threat’s gone. 

Bucky’s eyes flick to the comm in Steve’s ear and he removes it, clipping it into his own. He presses down on it and speaks lowly. “This is Bucky. I’m fine. Steve’s fine. We’ll be back soon.” Then he takes the comm out and crushes it in between his metal fingers. 

“I can’t manage this without you anymore, Buck,” Steve speaks up, voice quiet. 

Bucky looks down at him and squeezes his eyes shut, but immediately opens them again. “Steve -”

“No, listen. You promised that we’d heal together, right? And then _one_ bump in the road -”

“ _ Bump in the road?!  _ I nearly  _ killed  _ you,” Bucky snaps, letting the anger seep into his voice, sharp and cutting. 

Steve takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Buck, you killing yourself would have killed me quicker than anything else ever could,” he says softly. 

“Steve, no. You can’t have that kind of mentality. It’s not healthy, alright? Not for me, and not for you. If I had chosen to go through with it, then you would have gone on living because I am _not_ the only thing keeping you here. That’s bullshit.That’s manipulative - for both of us. It ain’t healthy.” 

“Neither is killing yourself because you nearly killed me,” Steve retorts. 

Bucky slumps, feeling weak as the fight slides out of him. He huffs and moves off of Steve, sitting next to him on the ground. “Well, we’re just a fuckin’ mess, aren’t we?” he mumbles. 

Steve sits up and rubs at his eyes. “Yeah,” he sighs. 

Bucky closes his eyes and buries his face in the crook of his flesh arm. “Steve, it only took a dream to revert me back to the Winter Soldier.” 

Steve stays silent. Bucky can see the battle in his eyes, can see Steve warring with himself over what to say. Eventually, Steve ducks his head and huffs out a long breath. “We’ll figure this out,” he says.

And the thing is, Bucky knows that. He knows that they’ll get better, and he knows that one day this will all be in the past. But he also knows, that until then, he’s a danger. He knows that as long as he’s still got Hydra in his head, everyone around him is at risk; and so is he. He can’t trust himself. He can’t trust his own goddamn mind. So he decides what to do and he knows that Steve will put up a fight. He’s got his own arguments geared up and ready to go. 

“And until then?” he asks. 

“We’ll keep you safe,” Steve replies in a heartbeat. 

Bucky sighs. “That’s not good enough. As long as they’re in my head, no one around me is safe. You saw how easily I got out of the Tower, you’ve seen the kind of damage I can do. And you sure as hell don’t want that shit to repeat itself, just as much as I don’t.”

A heavy pause. “What are you saying, Buck?” 

“I’m sayin’ it’s either a bullet in my head or Back into cryo, Steve,” Bucky says, voice tight with well-practiced control. 

This pause is longer, and it vibrates with emotion. Bucky watches Steve, who’s watching his own fists curl and uncurl. Steve lets out a shaky sigh and closes his eyes. “There’s gotta be another way,” he whispers. 

“It’s just until we figure out how to get this stuff out of my head,” Bucky pushes. He’s made up his mind. He knows. Fuck, he  _ hopes  _ Tony’s gonna help him with this. 

Steve goes stays silent this time. Eventually, he looks up from his hands and stares Bucky dead in the eye. His face is so open, full of tenderness and heartbreak. Bucky just watches, eyebrows pulling together. He feels like he got shot in the heart. Steve pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and sucks in a long, unsteady breath. Bucky waits. Tears start dripping down Steve’s face before he moves, but when he does, it’s straight into Bucky’s arms. 

Bucky tucks Steve into his body as much as he can, and he shudders at the warmth. “Promise you’ll come back to me,” Steve asks, voice quiet and unsure, but daringly open. 

Bucky closes his eyes, focuses on breathing steadily. “Always, Stevie,” he promises, and he means it. 

“Okay. Okay. If it’s what you want.” It sounds like the words are tearing themselves out of him. They sound reluctant, but Bucky knows Steve means them. 

“It is. It’s what needs to happen; for anyone to trust me again, for everyone to be safe and for me to know I’m fully in control,” Bucky says. And then he sighs, shoulders dropping. Everything leaks out of him, leaving him floating in calm acceptance. Steve pulls back a little and searches his eyes.

“What if I asked to be put under with you?” he asks, quiet as anything. 

Bucky barely hears it, but when he understands, he goes stock still. He can feel his face going ashen, can feel the confusion welling up. “ _ Why?”  _ he demands. 

“I can’t. I don’t know if I can wait. I only just got you back. We don’t know how long it’ll take for them to figure it out and. What if something happens? Buck, I’ll go insane. For you it’ll be like no time passed, but for me I - I can’t - I just - We only just -”

Bucky stops him, hands coming up to grip at his shoulders and rub slow circles with his thumbs. “Steve, c’mon, calm down. Take easy breaths, alright?” he says, watching the panic slowly slide away. 

Steve closes his eyes and tilts his head down. “If they need me they can wake me up. If they don’t, well. We can heal together, when they figure it out.” 

Bucky stays silent for a while, before asking exactly what Steve had asked him. “If that’s what you want?” He doesn’t like it, but he understands. 

Steve just nods. And, well. Okay. “We’re doing this together, Buck. I’m sick of us being apart.”

“Together, then,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve’s face breaks open like a skylight and relief shines like the stars there. Bucky nearly chokes, because he gets it. They’ve only just gotten each other back and to be apart already; it hurts to think about it. Bucky  _ knows -  _ has always known - that they were each other’s universes, that they were always meant to walk hand in hand. And while it may not be ideal, and it’ll be hard to get the others to understand, it’s what needs to happen. They won’t let anyone tear them apart again. They’re infinite, and  _ together.  _

Bucky smiles and feels the tears pooling in his eyes. He blinks them away, tries to focus on Steve’s face. Steve smiles back just as watery, and lifts his hands up to cup Bucky’s face. Bucky leans into them and huffs out a breath that’s supposed to resemble a laugh. “We should be getting back,” he reminds Steve. 

Steve shakes his head slowly, his eyes flicking down to Bucky’s lips before coming back up to stare into his eyes. “Just stay with me a little longer,” he asks. 

It’s dark now, but to Bucky, Steve’s face is as clear as day. “Yeah,” he says. He pulls Steve closer to him.

They meet in the middle, lips pressing together as soft as a breath. They move into it, dipping their heads and shuddering out breaths and gasping at each other’s air. Their lips slotting together and moving in a messy rhythm. Bucky flicks his tongue out, teasing along Steve’s bottom lip, and the affect it has on Steve is instant. He shivers like a feather’s being dragged along his nape and arches into Bucky. He licks into Bucky’s mouth like he’s desperate for it, like Bucky’s the cure for the fever racing along his skin, scalding the both of them. 

Fire laps at them as the emotion roils between them, roaring like crackling flames. Steve’s fingers are digging into the sides of Bucky’s face, and Bucky’s gripping at Steve’s sides like he’s gonna drift away the moment he lets go. Steve pulls away just enough to gasp in another breath of air and dive back in, whispering Bucky’s name. Bucky groans and nips at Steve’s lips, wondering why it took seventy years and a whole lot of hell to get them here. 

“Stevie,” Bucky breathes out, warm metal fingers sliding up Steve’s back and gripping the back of Steve’s neck. 

Steve curls into the touch, eyelashes fluttering against his skin before his eyes slide open. He stares at Bucky, eyes fever-bright and panting a little. “Yeah, Buck?” His voice sounds wrecked, and all they’ve done is kiss. 

Arousal stirs in the pit of Bucky’s stomach, unfurling and burning like a furnace. He shudders and tightens his grip the tiniest bit. Steve lets out a low keen, no matter how small the change was. “After, when everything’s fixed, I’m gonna fuck you into a mattress and then you’re gonna fuck me up against a wall, and a thousand different things are gonna happen, but right now. Fuck, Steve.” Steve’s mouthing at Bucky’s neck, lapping at the hot skin and biting softly. “But right now, everyone’s looking for us. And I don’t wanna do this on top of a roof in the middle of the city.” 

Steve pulls back, watching him with hooded eyes, and fuck anyone who ever said Steve Rogers was innocent. He’s a vixen. “If y’sure, Buck,” he hums, brushing his thumb over Bucky’s lips. 

Bucky can’t help them parting, can’t help the rush of breath that follows. “I am,” he tries, the pad of Steve’s thumb muffling the words a little. 

Steve searches his eyes and then nods, taking his hands away. Bucky almost whines at the loss. They stand together slowly, and cast shadowed looks at the guns still laying there. The reminder of how close they’d come to putting bullets in their heads is a punch to the gut. Bucky swallows and picks his up, tucking it into his waistband. Steve does the same, then he takes Bucky’s hand. 

  
They walk back together, shoulders bumping and steeling themselves for the onslaught that is waiting for them back at the Tower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> attempted suicide (in a memory), brief mentions of torture


	20. Chapter Nineteen

They take Bucky to a cell in the Tower. He goes without a fight, eyes locked with Steve’s until they can’t see each other anymore. Steve has to grit his teeth and clench his fists so he doesn’t tear the people taking him away to bits. Everyone’s back at the Tower, and they regroup in a room on the same floor Bucky’s being kept in. Steve stands at the head of the table, and waits for someone to start talking. 

Natasha is silent, but Steve can see something buzzing under her skin. Sam sits to Steve’s right as a strong, calm presence. Bruce is standing with Clint at the back of the room, arms folded across his chest as he watches everything play out. Thor isn’t there, but they haven’t heard from him in a while. Tony’s sitting silently at the other head of the table, scowling at Steve. His black eye sticks out against pale skin.

“Well?” he prompts. 

Steve forces down a long sigh. “We’ve made a decision,” he begins, but he’s immediately cut off by Tony barking out a dry laugh.

“No offense, Cap, but so have we.”

Steve glares at him and grinds his back teeth together before talking again. “And that would be?”

“Barnes clearly isn’t as stable as everyone thought he was. He’s dangerous and therefore a problem, especially with his new arm,” Tony says, standing up from his chair. 

Steve watches him, but still notices Natasha tensing up out of the corner of his eye. “Those were sleeper commands. He had a flashback, and they were activated,” he explains. 

Tony throws his hands up. “Is that supposed to make things better? Actually, it makes it worse! So, what, it takes a _dream_ and suddenly he’s a mindless assassin again? What if someone had been there to give him a mission? What then?” he pauses, clearly not finished. Steve bites his tongue and waits. “I’m sorry, Cap, but he’s gotta be locked up. At least until we find a better solution.”

Steve takes a deep breath, brings up a hand to run it down his face. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms and then sits there with his head in his hands. “We’ve got a better solution,” he says when he looks back up at the others, eyes roaming the room to touch upon all of them. 

Tony rises to the bait, his blood still boiling. “And that is?” he snipes. 

“Put us in cryostasis,” Steve shrugs. 

It’s quiet for a moment as everyone digests this, then: “ _ Us?”  _ Sam bites out from beside him. Natasha sits up a little straighter, her eyes narrowing, and even Tony looks stumped. He rocks back on his heels, eyes blinking quickly behind red tinged glasses. Bruce looks uncomfortable. Clint just sighs, casting his eyes up to the ceiling like he’s done with all of this. 

“I’m sorry, but you did say  _ us,  _ right?” Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Steve nearly groans, skin itching with all the eyes on him. “I did. I can explain that, too.” 

“Oh, please do,” Tony encourages, sarcasm heavy in his tone, waving a hand at him and looking away. 

Steve tilts his head back to look at the ceiling for a moment and shuffles his feet uncomfortably. “Well, we need to figure out how get this stuff out of his head, right? And since that could take a while - and even locked up he’s still at risk, with the dreams - he brought up the idea of going back into cryo.”

“That doesn’t explain you going under with him,” Natasha says. 

Steve sighs. “I can’t -” he starts, and then he stops, closing his eyes. He can’t look at them when he says it. “I can’t go that long without him again,” he admits. 

The room goes dead silent again. Clint speaks up first, surprisingly. “I did not see that one coming,” he says, and then taps his foot against the floor. “Does anyone want coffee? I do,” he continues, side-stepping towards the door to request some. 

Tony raises his hand, but everyone else remains stock-still. Steve chews at the inside of his cheek, skin hot as he waits for someone else to react. Sam does, reaching up with one hand to rub at Steve’s arm in a gesture of comfort. Steve glances down at him and gives a tiny twitch of a smile. 

“Okay, so even if we had a couple freezers on hand, why would we let you go under with him?” Tony asks, folding his arms against his chest, fingers tapping against his biceps. He’s pacing slightly, unable to stay still. 

“Let me?” Steve echoes, narrowing his eyes. The comment takes his mind off the embarrassment of what he admitted.

Tony narrows his eyes right back. “Not to alarm you, Cap, but you’re  _ Captain America.  _ The world needs you on hand,” he bites. 

Steve tenses, ready to fire back, but then Sam stands up, shoulders squared. “C’mon Tony, you know that’s not fair. Steve’s done more than his share, and it’s not like he’s going away forever,” he says. 

Steve feels warm at the support, but he remains stoic, watching Tony and waiting for his next argument. The coffee comes in and Clint takes the tray, setting it on the table. He’s got his forearm bandaged and a couple of patches over his arms and knuckles. Clint really hasn’t been back for that long, and whatever mission he’d been on must’ve been a hand-to-hand one. Guilt churns in Steve’s gut at the fact that he’s dragged Clint into all this - everyone into all this - when it’s really just his shit to deal with. 

“Okay, and if we never find a way to get rid of the activation codes?” Tony counters, a cup of coffee in his hand. 

Steve takes a in a sharp breath, feeling cold all over. “You will,” he says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels.

“But if we  _ don’t,”  _ Tony pushes, lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip. He winces, pulls it away and blows in it to cool it down. 

Steve sighs, rubbing at his eyes again. “Then take us out when you’re  _ sure,  _ and we’ll come up with something else,” he shrugs. 

“I still don’t understand why you’re going under too, Steve. It’s a little selfish, if I’m honest,” Natasha speaks up, leaning forwards and drumming her fingers on the table. 

Steve feels so, so tired. He thinks back, wonders when he last _stopped_. Suddenly, he feels very, very selfish. And that’s okay. He feels the weight sliding off his shoulders, finally, as he realises just how much of it he’s been carrying. For years and years. He’d been ready to rest when he went into the ice. And then they woke him up, thrust him back into the world and expected him to carry on like nothing ever happened. _Fighting._ He’s been fighting his whole goddamn life. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them back up. 

“I know. But maybe it’s my turn to be. Maybe I deserve to be the selfish one for once,” he says. He takes a seat, completely worn out. He feels over-tired, the sort of weary you get deep in your bones when you’ve been awake for days, when it feels like nothing you ever do will shake the dreariness off. “I’m doing this for me, Nat. It’s my choice.”

Natasha doesn’t reply, but she gives him a tiny nod, something like pride shining in her eyes. Steve searches her face, but can’t find anything else there. He wonders if she’d said that simply to provoke him into telling the truth. He looks away, turns to Tony and waits for him to say something. Tony’s drinking his coffee, staring down at Steve, seemingly lost in thought. 

“I still don’t regret punching you, y’know,” Tony says, and then rolls his eyes. “But fine, I’ll help. Again. Whatever,” he sighs, and turns to stalk out of the room, waving at Bruce to follow him. “Give me a day. I just remembered that I stole some of those freeze-machines from a couple Hydra bases once,” he says as he disappears around the corner. 

Steve closes his eyes, wonders if he looks as exhausted as he feels. He aches for Bucky, wonders if he’s doing alright. 

“Steve?” Sam asks.

Steve opens his eyes slowly, putting a lot of effort into the act. “Mm,” he prompts. 

“Are you sure about this, man? You don’t know how long you’re gonna be under for. It could be months, could be years,” Sam says. 

Steve hears the underlying meaning.  _ Are you ready to go through that again? Go into the ice and come back out not knowing how much time had passed?  _ And, yeah, it’s a terrifying thought. Steve can feel it in his stomach, uncomfortable and prickly, but he’s thought it over. He  _ has.  _ So when he answers, it’s with utter certainty. 

“Yeah, Sam. M’sure. Buck is, too.”

Sam sighs, long and low. “Alright, man. But we’re gonna miss you, you know that, right?” he asks. 

Steve can feel his heart twisting into something like regret. It’s not nearly enough to change his mind, though. “We won’t be gone forever,” he says quietly.  

“I know. But I’m gonna make a calendar, mark off the days. Stick it up beside your...tanks?” he sounds unsure about the word, but he must shrug it off because then he’s slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders and tugging him into a hug. “You should get some sleep, man. Tony will come get you when they’re ready. Or he’ll send someone.”

Steve rasps out a chuckle and opens his arms to squeeze Sam gently to his chest. When Sam pulls away, he turns to leave the room. “I’ll be there to send you off!” he promises, and then he’s gone, too. 

Steve’s jaw aches like it does when he’s been crying for hours. He holds back the wave of tears, though, and counts his blessings. His  _ friends.  _ Clint’s poured another cup of coffee, and is respectfully focusing on the mug while Steve gathers himself. Natasha is still silent. She’s staring at the table, face carefully blank. She stays that way as she speaks. 

“I respect your choice, Steve. But I still don’t like it,” she says, and she finally looks at him.

He searches her eyes, but finds nothing. “I’ll be back,” he assures her. “And everyone will be safer while we’re gone.” 

“I know. It’s still going to be hard, though,” she admits, but doesn’t explain why. 

He just nods, and stands up. “I’m gonna go see Bucky. Thanks for...understanding,” he says. He shoots Clint a smile he returns before he walks out of the room and heads for Bucky’s cell. 

He walks slowly, takes in every little detail in the hallway. He feels oddly calm, in a way he hasn’t since he came out of the ice. He trails his fingers along the wall, before turning into the little room that faces Bucky’s cell. And Bucky’s sitting there on the bed behind the reinforced glass, staring at the ground. He looks up the moment Steve sits down at the table, and gives him a tired smile. Steve lets out a heavy breath and crinkle-eyes at him, sending warmth through his gaze. They sit there at opposite sides of the glass, smiling fondly at each other. There are speakers joining both rooms, so they can talk. 

Steve speaks up first. “I told everyone. Tony said it should be ready by tomorrow,” he tells him.

Bucky nods and unclasps his hands. He stands up and walks across the cell, sinking down onto the floor and leaning against the glass. Steve follows suit, pushing the chair back and sliding down the glass to sit next to him. He watches him out of the corner of his eye, leaning his head on the glass and simply letting himself breathe. “You’re sure about this?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, Buck. M’sure,” Steve hums. He closes his eyes. 

“Okay,” Bucky sighs, and does the same. 

They fall asleep like that. 

<>

Sam comes in to wake them up. Bucky’s already awake and watches him shake Steve’s shoulder softly. Steve wakes up with a start. There’s no soft yawning and sleepy blinking, he’s just asleep and then he’s not. Sam gives Bucky a small smile that he returns easier than he ever has. He’s basking in an ocean of calm; he knows what’s going to happen, because he’s chosen it. It feels like the end and the beginning of something so  _ good.  _

“Tony sent me to come and get you guys. Everything’s ready,” Sam says, voice quiet and slow like he understands the state they’re in. 

Steve stands up slowly and Bucky does the same, that soft smile still lingering on his face. He’s sore from sleeping on the ground, but he revels in it. The discomfort exists and he’s allowed to acknowledge it and complain about it, if he wants to. He chooses not to. Guards come in to escort him to Tony’s workshop, and that annoys him, but he knows it’s basically a formality. They’re just doing their job. He walks with them, Steve and Sam following behind. 

He’s still sleepy and the journey is slow, but he wakes right up when they get there. The guards are quickly dismissed. Sam leads them through Tony’s workshop into another room and down a flight of stairs. There’s another basement that is very clearly top secret. It’s brightly lit with almost has a medical feel to it, and all the Avengers are there. 

Natasha and Clint are hanging back, arms folded over their chests. Tony’s fiddling with something on a computer with Bruce standing next to him, and beside them stand two cryo tanks. It takes Bucky’s breath away and his stomach prickles with panic, but then he reminds himself of the situation. Suddenly, he doesn’t  _ care  _ that the others are there. He reaches out and grabs Steve’s hand, squeezing softly. Steve squeezes back, and when Bucky looks over at him, Steve’s watching him with softness in his eyes. 

“Sooooo, is there anything you two wanted to do before being frozen?” Tony asks, spinning around and raising an eyebrow at them. 

Bucky searches Steve’s eyes, but there’s nothing but warmth and gentleness in them. Bucky smiles and shakes his head at Tony. “Do you think you can figure out a way to get Hydra out of my head?” he asks. 

Tony shrugs. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” He waves his hand to dismiss the question and turns back to the computer. 

Steve tugs Bucky a little closer, and he goes willingly. “I feel like I should say something,” Steve says to the room. 

“You just did,” Natasha says drily. 

Steve rolls his eyes at her, and looks back down at Bucky. Bucky swallows, rubs his thumb in little circles over Steve’s hand. It hits him then, what they’re doing. They have no idea how long they’ll be in there, of what’ll happen while they’re frozen, but they’re doing it anyway. And they're putting their lives in the Avenger’s hands. They're trusting Tony and the others to keep them safe while they sleep, completely defenseless. The realisation of how far he’s willing to go to get better and how far Steve’s willing to go to stay with him makes something bloom in Bucky’s chest. 

“C’mere, we’ll get you all hooked up if you’re ready,” Tony calls, and they slowly go over to the tanks, hand in hand. 

Tony and Bruce hook them up, and Bucky’s never been sure what the wires are meant to be monitoring, but he sticks his flesh arm out all the same. Everyone stays quiet, but their emotions hang heavy in the air and that’s enough. No one can seem to put it into words, but Bucky thinks he understands anyway. 

“So, uh. I guess we’ll see you all on the other side,” Steve says, glancing away from Bucky long enough to address everyone individually. 

“You’re going to make me cry, Steve,” Clint deadpans with an exasperated look on his face. 

Steve scrunches up his nose and then looks back at Bucky, sighing out a gust of breath. Bucky smiles again, and Tony and Bruce step away to go back to the computer. “You’re definitely sure about this?” Bucky asks quietly. 

Steve just nods. “You are, too?”

Bucky nods back, before reaching up with his flesh hand to cup Steve’s cheek. Steve leans into the touch gently, tilting his head to one side. “I never did tell you, y’know,” Bucky murmurs. 

Steve’s eyebrows pull together. “Tell me what?” 

“That I love you.” Bucky huffs out a laugh along with it, reveling in how easily it leaves his mouth. 

Everyone’s still silent. Everyone’s listening. Steve’s cheeks turn pink, and he glances down at his feet before looking back up and smiling almost shyly. Bucky’s heart feels like it’s going to burst. And then: “I love you, too, Buck,” Steve replies, so much warmth and adoration in his voice that Bucky feels like he’s had this all his life. Maybe he has, lingering somewhere behind everything else. 

“Was that really the first time you told each other?” Tony pipes up, breaking the moment. 

Bucky sends him a glare, but there’s no heat behind it. Steve scowls at Tony, before recapturing Bucky’s attention by leaning in and pressing a brush of a kiss to Bucky’s lips. Bucky sucks in a surprised breath, but the light pressure is gone before he can respond. Steve smiles down at him, and then Tony speaks again. 

“If you’re ready...So are the freezers!” he announces, and gestures for them to get in. 

Bucky takes a step back, and looks around at the people gathered there. He bites his lip. Everyone is watching him, expectant. “I just...Thank you. All of you. For trusting me. For helping me,” he tells them, and then he squeezes Steve’s hand one more time, turning his gaze to him and catching his eyes, sending him a look heavy with love. It won’t be long before he sees him again, but it’s still hard. 

He steps into the tank, leans back against the slightly slanted backrest and waits. Steve moves towards his own tank, eyes drifting reluctantly from Bucky’s to the people in the room. “Thank you, as well. I’ll see you all soon, I guess. For me. Don’t do anything stupid while we’re gone,” he chuckles, and it sounds suspiciously like he’s going to start crying. 

Bucky can’t help it. “We’re taking all the stupid with us, Stevie,” he says, quietly, but he knows Steve heard it, because he glances back at Bucky and shoots him a fond look. 

“We’ll be fine, Steve. See you soon,” Natasha says, but her voice is strangely thick.

“We’ll be right here when you wake up,” Sam encourages.

Bucky watches as Steve steps into his tank and disappears out of sight. Tony comes up to him, and does up the new buckles and straps. Tony moves back, patting Bucky on the chest like a goodbye and the door slides shut. Bucky swallows and rests his head back. He closes his eyes. He feels the ice slide over him, but unlike before, it’s soft and too quick for him to fully register. 

He settles into the black with a lump in his throat and peace in his mind. 

<>

Steve wonders if it’s going to hurt as much as the first time. 

It doesn’t. It feels like a cold blanket sliding over him, a warm darkness hovering right behind it. It consumes him quickly. He rests his head back and he drifts into the black with love in his heart and peace in his bones. 

  
And he knows that when they wake up, they’ll  _ finally  _ be able to heal together. 


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only the epilogue left! thanks for sticking with me :)

**A.K.A What Four Of The Avengers Got Up To While Steve And Bucky Were On Ice**

*

Tony - 5 Months After

There are a lot of different opinions floating around about Tony Stark. He could make you an entire twenty-page list in size five lettering and still not be done. He’s not going to do that, though, because he doesn’t have the time and he’d prefer not to get his feelings hurt. Mostly because he’s busy, though. Very busy. He has an entire assassin brain to fix and many other projects going on, because he’d probably go actually insane if he focused on just that one. 

He also has a life. Sometimes. And with all that said, here he is in his workshop staring blearily at thirty different brain scans of patients with memory problems. And he would prefer if you didn’t ask him where he got those, because then he would have to lie and he likes to avoid lying as much as possible. You know what? He’d like to avoid  _ life _ as much as possible right now. 

“I am talking to no one in my head,” he mutters, and reaches for his coffee mug. 

And the damn thing has the gall to be empty. He stands up, waving a hand at the floating brains. The holographic images slide back into their file and he walks over to the coffee pot he has re-installed at one of his benches. As he pours himself more coffee - black, because milk is in the fridge over  _ there -  _ he wonders how many time he’s re-installed this particular coffee pot. 

“Jarvis? How many times have I put this coffee pot back here?” he asks. 

“As many times as Miss Potts has removed it, sir,” sighs the AI. 

Tony scowls across the workshop at the wall and sips at his coffee, enjoying the burn as it goes down. “And that isss…” he trails off suggestively. He leans back against the counter, propping himself up on one arm. 

“Eighteen times and counting, sir,” Jarvis says. 

“Ah.” Tony nods, and continues to sip at his coffee. 

His ears are ringing and the room’s been tilting sideways for the past eleven hours,  _ but  _ he knows more about the human brain than he ever deemed necessary. “How do you think Cap and Winter are doing, Jarvis?” he asks, slumping back across the counter once he’s downed his coffee. 

“Their vitals are stable, and their states remain unchanged,” Jarvis reports. 

Which is good. It’s been five months since they’ve been put under, and they remain unchanged and in exactly the same place they were five months ago. Tony visits them every now and then to keep them company, because they might appreciate it even though they’re all frozen and together and shit. Clint must think so too, because arrow-boy has been hanging around more than usual. 

Tony thinks Clint wants something from him. In fact, he’s probably somewhere in the building right now. Tony hums and pours another cup of coffee before walking over to the elevator. He asks for the communal Avengers floor, and focuses on keeping his head on straight as the elevator moves up and up. He is so happy he installed a private elevator for a few select people. He doesn’t think he could handle stopping and starting more than necessary at the moment. 

He should sleep. Maybe. 

But first, food. He could do with some eggs. He wonders if Sam’s around. 

“Is Sam in the Tower?” he asks. 

“Mr Wilson is currently in his quarters, sir,” Jarvis replies. 

Tony sips at his coffee, one hand gripping the railing in the elevator as it slides to a graceful stop. “Can you tell him I want him in the communal kitchen? Now? Tell him it’s important,” he says.

“As you wish, sir.” Jarvis sounds exasperated. 

Tony’s not sure when he allowed his AI to get snarky, but he’s on board with it. He walks out into the communal kitchen and sits down at the counter. There’s no one here, but that’s sort of normal lately. Nat is out on missions more often than not, and so is Clint. But when he has time off he’s in his own building doing who knows what. Or he’s climbing around in the air vents in the Tower and annoying Tony, dropping paper planes everywhere. Tony has considered that there are messages written on these paper planes, but he hasn’t bothered to check yet. 

Bruce has gone off somewhere, but Tony can’t remember what for, and Thor hasn’t been on Earth in a while. But Sam. Sam  _ lives  _ here now. Sam is constant. Sam is nice. Sam cooks good food. 

Sam is in the kitchen. “Tony? What happened?” And he sounds concerned. 

“Sam, you’re an angel. You even have wings. Did you know that? The angel part, not the wings. I mean, I’d be pretty concerned if you didn’t know about the wings. You  _ do  _ know you have wings, right?” Tony blabbers, watching the seconds tick by on the clock on the wall. 

It’s a shitty clock. He doesn’t like the colour. They’re gonna have to get a new clock. “Yes, I know I have wings. When was the last time you slept, Tony?” Sam asks, sounding like an overbearing mother hen. 

“Before the parts about the neurological electrotherapy blah-blahs. Did you know that they wait fifteen minutes before checking on a prisoner after they get the electrocution death penalty? It takes a shit load of electricity to kill a guy. But. Anyways. That’s not what I wanted to talk about.” Tony hums and stares into his empty coffee mug. It’s very empty. 

Sam watches him with an unimpressed look on his face. “What do you want to talk about, then?” he prompts after Tony apparently takes to long with his silence. 

“Eggs, angel. Poached, fried, scrambled, salt and pepper, with toast or without. Sunny side up, sunny side down _.  _ I don’t care. But. Eggs.” Tony sighs, and leans heavily on the counter. 

Sam’s still looking at him with those angel eyes, probably very disappointed in Tony because everyone is disappointed in Tony when he doesn’t get more than six hours of sleep every 24 hours. Which is a ridiculous amount, because if he did that then how would he ever get anything done? Everyone’s insane. 

“If I make you eggs, will you go to sleep?” Sam bargains, because apparently he’s a conniving, evil angel. 

But. Eggs. “Yes. But not because of the eggs. Although I still want those. I’ll sleep because you’re an  _ angel.”  _ Tony cackles, cracking open one eye to watch Sam pull out a frying pan. 

“Are you coming onto me, Stark? I’m disappointed, Pepper loves you a lot,” Sam quips as he gets eggs and pours a little oil into the pan, waiting for it to heat up. 

Tony frowns and presses his forehead onto the cool counter. “You’re a bad angel,” he states. His mind starts to clear through the fog as the smell of eggs cooking wafts through the air. He groans and sits up a little, eyeing the pan. “I take it back, you’re the best angel.”

“How is the research going, anyways?” Sam asks, and he’s talking about  _ work.  _ Why is he doing this to Tony? Horrible. He answers anyways, because Tony himself is a fucking angel.

“I have made some progress. I have other people on it, too, and I stole some more Hydra shit - including a sparky chair.” He pushes his coffee cup away from him because it’s  _ offensive,  _ sitting there being empty. 

Sam’s sliding a plate of eggs across the counter, accompanied by buttered toast and Tony didn’t even know Sam had made toast but that doesn’t matter because  _ toast and eggs.  _ Incredible. “Sparky chair?” Sam questions, leaning on his elbows and raising an eyebrow.

“Clint named it, I think. It does the electricity thing,” Tony mumbles around a mouthful of beautifully runny eggs and perfectly toasted toast. He’s honestly in heaven and Sam is an  _ angel.  _

He thinks Sam mutters  _ electricity thing  _ under his breath, but he will never be sure. He focuses on eating all of his perfect eggs and toast, because his stomach’s been rumbling for far too long and it’s been drilled into his head that he can’t survive off coffee. Which, he’s pretty sure he could if he added some shit in. And. That’s a fucking fantastic idea; this is why he’s so amazing. 

“Jarvis, put that in my notes,” he demands. 

“...Sir?” Jarvis questions, and right, Tony didn’t say that out loud. 

“I want to talk to Bruce when he gets back, because he knows all that healthy food stuff, right? And everyone says I can’t survive on coffee alone, but I bet I could if I tweaked it a little. So. Notes,” he clarifies, and goes back to scarfing down his eggs. 

Sam’s staring at him in horror. Tony can see him out of the corner of his eye, no matter how bleary is vision is right now. “Tony  _ no,”  _ Sam scolds. 

“Mother fucking holy hen,” Tony complains. “Tony  _ yes,”  _ he adds, because no one ever understands him when he talks. 

He’s finished his eggs, so he’s going to get some sleep. He promised angel-boy that he would, after all. He stands up and puts his plate and cutlery in the dishwasher because he’s a normal human and he can clean up for himself, despite what people assume. He returns to the elevator, waving at Sam as he goes because he can’t be bothered to voice his goodbye, and flops into his bed as soon as he gets to it. He sleeps for more than six hours. He thinks everyone would be proud of him.

*

Clint - Nearly A Year After

Clint is staring at a pasta sauce stain on his shirt when someone knocks at his door. He scowls at the noise and glares down at the pasta sauce. He brings the spot up to his mouth and licks at it, even though he knows it’s going to make a mark. And whoever’s knocking on the door will know that he got sauce on his shirt and tried to lick it off. There’s another knock, and he throws back his head and groans before kicking his legs off the couch and standing up. He nearly trips over Lucky, who’s staring at the door with his ears perked up, and he subtly moves an empty pizza box behind the couch with his foot. 

The person knocks at the door again, and he picks up his pace, unlocking the door and throwing it open. Nat’s glaring at him, clearly impatient. He rolls his eyes and gestures for her to come in. 

“You tell me to use the front door like a normal person, but it takes you an entire hour to open it,” she complains, walking past him through the door and over to the couch. She pauses to pat at Lucky’s head, and sits down.

He has to refrain from rolling his eyes again, and occupies himself with shutting and locking the door. “It was not an entire -”

“And what the hell’s up with that?  _ Use the door like a normal person, Nat,  _ right. I’m not the one who crawls through air vents to get around,” Nat continues, lowering her voice to mock his tone. 

He has to give her that. “Point,” he sighs, and comes over to sit down next to her. “How’re Cap and Bucky settling in? That was today, right?” he asks. 

“You have pasta sauce on your shirt.” She blatantly ignores the question, and squints her eyes at the spot on his shirt. “And you tried to lick it off.” 

“You know what, I knew you were going to bring it up,” he sighs. He kicks his feet up onto the coffee table and waits. 

She takes her time, but eventually she answers his question. “Yes, they were moved today. I don’t know why you’re asking, it’s not like they knew what was happening,” she says.

“Aw, no. Their opinions should be considered, even when they’re all icy and...stuff,” Clint reprimands her. It’s true. (It’s totally true, he’s very happy for them and he cherishes every moment they’re together. Even if they’re frozen.) “How long’s it been, anyways?” he wonders out loud. 

“Nearly a year. How’d you break your nose this time?” Nat asks. 

He shrugs, bringing up a hand to tenderly touch the plasters littering his face. “You know what, I don’t even know. Could’ve been that last mission, could’ve been when I was yelling at that guy about not paying his rent.”

“You let him punch you in the face?” Nat snickers, reaching over to pet Lucky when the dog snuggles up to them and nudges at Nat’s thigh. 

Clint shrugs again, and she drops the subject. He wonders why Nat’s here for a moment, but then dismisses that too. He simply rests back into the couch, resumes his dinner. He grabs the half-full pizza box that had been discarded to the armrest and picks up a piece. A pale hand - a sneaky, sneaky pale hand - creeps over and nicks a slice, and he squawks in protest around his mouthful, but he doesn’t do much more than that. 

They eat in silence for a bit, feeding their crusts to Lucky - don’t get him wrong, Clint loves the crusts, but so does Lucky, and Lucky’s making those sad eyes. He’s a golden retriever and have you  _ seen  _ golden retriever sad eyes? C’mon. Clint’s halfway through his third piece when he remembers something that he’s been meaning to show Nat for ages. 

He leaps up from the couch, dropping the pizza box down in his spot and practically  _ gliding  _ over to where his bow is leant against the wall. “Nat, watch this,” he says, picking it up and gathering a few arrows, checking the marks on them to know he’s got the right ones. Would be a shame if he shot a ‘splodey arrow inside. Again. 

“That’s amazing, arrow-boy. Can you hit the bullseye yet?” she snarks, all attention on Lucky as the dog chews on a pizza crust. 

Clint scowls. “ _ Nat.  _ This is important,” he scolds, and notches an arrow. 

She rolls her eyes and looks at him, raising one eyebrow and gesturing for him to go on. “You have the floor,” she announces, voice dripping with exasperation. She mutters something under her breath, but Clint’s hearing aids don’t pick it up. He considers asking her what she said, but instead decides to show off his new arrows. 

“You’re gonna love this,” he says. He pulls the string back and aims at the ceiling, then letting the arrow loose. 

It flies straight up, but the arrowhead explodes before it can embed itself in the ceiling. Into  _ confetti.  _ Clint grins and looks over at Nat. Her face is one of blank indifference, and he groans, rolling his shoulders back and then notching another arrow. “C’mon, it’s  _ cool,”  _ he insists, and lets another confetti arrow fly. 

Confetti litters the ground and Lucky starts barking, wagging his tail in excitement. Nat still looks unimpressed, so he gives up, leaning the bow back against the wall and trailing back over to the couch. He picks up his phone, hoping it’s charged. It’s at 23%, but he’s okay with that, so he dials one of the only numbers on the damn thing. 

“Stark,” he speaks as soon as Tony picks up. 

Nat side-eyes him, and scowls, intently listening in. Tony just sighs on the other end of the phone, and Clint lifts his eyes to the ceiling, wondering when someone will be happy to get a call from him. He eyes the last bit of pizza, but Nat follows his gaze and grabs it before he can. He squints at her, but decides it’s not worth the black eye. 

“Listen, Nat wasn’t impressed with the confetti arrows. We have to do better. I’m thinking...Pizza arrows,” he begins, drumming his fingers on the armrest. 

It’s silent on the other end, and Clint wonders if Tony’s hung up and rigged the phone to not make a dial tone or something. He probably could. But then: “I’m not making fucking pizza arrows for you, arrow-boy.” Tony groans, and Clint sprawls out on the couch, one flailing arm narrowly missing Nat’s face. She swats at him, and he makes a high-pitched noise of protest. Also, why does everyone call him arrow-boy? He’s so much more than that. He’s a  _ man, for one.  _

“What about flower crown arrows, then?” he tries. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” Tony asks, like this is the worst thing in the world. “I have so much going on, so much to do, an assassin brain to fix, and you want fancy Stark-made arrows that do useless things,” he continues. 

Clint frowns. “They’re not useless. They’re, like, parties in an arrow. That’s cool,” he defends. 

Nat’s watching him with exhaustion in her eyes, and he wonders what she’s thinking. “I am  _ so busy,”  _ Tony emphasises. 

Clint thinks it over. “If I bring you coffee, will you make me flower arrows?” he bargains. 

The other end of the phone is silent for a while. Clint cocks his head, wonders how much battery is left on his phone. “You know what, I just found time in my schedule for a few flower arrows,” Tony says eventually. 

Clint immediately perks up, sitting up on the couch and grinning. “Great! I’ll be there in a bit, I’m bringing Nat,” he says, and ends the call. 

“Why am I coming?” Nat asks, watching him with vaguely irritated eyes. He knows she doesn’t mean it though. She loves him. 

“Because you love flowers. And me. So. Flower arrows. That’s, like, the ultimate excitement for you,” he says, and stands up to go change his shirt. 

She just groans loudly at him, over-exaggerating the sound. Lucky starts barking along with her, and Clint reaches up to pops his hearing aids out, slipping them into his pockets so he doesn’t have to listen to them. When he’s changed his shirt, he grabs his keys and a jacket and Lucky’s leash. Nat’s still glaring, and she signs ‘idiot’ at him. He just grins, clicking his tongue at Lucky and clipping the leash on him. 

Nat walks out the apartment, waiting for him as he pulls his shoes on. They head out, and Clint has a skip in his stride as he thinks of the flower arrows. 

*

Sam - Sixteen Months After

It’s early, and Sam is panting out in hot puffs of air in front of him. He runs faster, pumps his arms quicker, tightens his core and pushes himself on the last lap. He’s drenched in sweat, but it’s satisfying. The path beneath him is a blur, and he’s sprinting over his appointed finish line before he knows it. He takes his time to slow down to a halt, and his legs feel like jello when he’s still. He bends forward, puts his hands on his knees and waits for his breathing to slow down. 

Eventually, he straightens up and unties his jersey from around his waist, wiping at his forehead with the sleeve. He puts it on even though his skin is overheating, and begins the walk home to the Tower. He goes straight for a shower when he gets there, chucks his clothes in the washing machine and puts on a fresh outfit. 

He’s got that ache in his gut that he gets when he desperately needs to do something with his hands. He’s been working at the VA again, getting back into the swing of things, and he’d been there yesterday.  But today he has to admit he’s feeling pretty lonely. Clint’s great - the guy keeps popping up like he’s everywhere at once - but Sam hasn’t interacted with anyone today. Apparently it’s one of those days where he needs to be around people. 

Tony’s busy, he knows. It’s been sixteen months since Steve and Bucky went under, and the guy has been working tirelessly. Not that that’s anything different from before. Natasha has been in and out of the Tower, busy with missions - personal or not, Sam isn’t sure. Bruce hasn’t been in the Tower for a while now, and no one ever really knows where to find Clint. So, fair to say, Sam is just going to have to suffer until someone pops up.

The apartment he lives in feels too empty, so he goes to Steve and Bucky’s. He knows the kitchen is stocked, because this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Their place feels less empty somehow, like one of them is going to be lounging on the couch or walking around the corner to say hi. He knows they won’t, but there’s still that homey feeling in the air. So the kitchen stays stocked, and Sam goes over there every now and then to cook something when he gets like this. 

The door stays unlocked because it’s not like anyone’s going to walk in on anything, and the only people who can get to their floor are people Steve and Bucky themselves have cleared with Jarvis. So Sam walks right in and heads for the kitchen where he’s set up a stereo and a spice rack. He’s going to call them housewarming presents. Well-used housewarming presents. 

Only, the apartment isn’t empty. Natasha is in the lounge, watching the city below through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She turns when he walks in, and she has toast with nutella in her hands. She stares at him while she takes another bite of her toast. Sam is extremely confused about how she manages to make it look threatening. She chews and swallows, then moves, breezing past him and out of the room. He notices she has bare feet, but he doesn’t comment on it. He understands why she was here. He misses them, too. 

He has caught up with a few of his friends too, now that his new ‘job’ has calmed down a bit. He’s still working, but now that he’s back at the VA, it’s hit him that he left behind a life he’d been building since he got back stateside. He’s due to go for some drinks on Friday, and he’s very much looking forward to it. He wonders, quite often, if he’ll be able to maintain separate lives. 

He ponders this as he gets a mixing bowl out with the intent to make a banana loaf. Baking is therapeutic to him - something to keep his mind and his hands busy - and he can put music on and just immerse himself in the act. He asks Jarvis to put the stereo on now, and smiles at the volume. It’s loud. Jarvis is used to Tony wanting the volume loud enough to blow out your eardrums. 

Sam leaves it. It’s comforting, somehow. 

He makes the batter for the loaf as he hums along to the songs on the stereo. He’s just spraying the pans with cooking oil when he hears a loud thud above him, followed by muffled cursing. He frowns and requests for the stereo to be turned down. When the music’s just a faint sound in the background, he listens carefully. 

“Is that you, Clint?” he calls out. 

“No!” comes the reply through the ceiling, and then he hears various thumping sounds before everything goes quiet. 

Sam shakes his head and simply pours the batter into the pans, before sliding them into the pre-heated oven. Clint comes in through the open door just as Sam’s wiping down the counter. He has a quiver full of arrows on his back, a black eye, and a plaster over the top of one eyebrow. He grins and walks over to the bench that Sam’s standing at. 

“You were in the ceiling again, weren’t you,” Sam asks, laughter threatening to bubble out of his chest. 

Clint shrugs, reaching out and grabbing the bowl Sam still hasn’t cleaned. “I was delivering paper planes to Tony and took a wrong turn,” he says, sticking a batter-covered finger in his mouth. 

“Oh yeah, how come you’re back to doing that again? Didn’t he already design a few more arrows for you?” 

Clint throws his arms out in a gesture of  _ dude are you serious.  _ “Listen, I have my confetti arrows, my flower arrows and my dog treat arrows. But what about  _ flamethrower arrows.”  _

“That’s a really bad idea,” Sam warns, but he’s grinning, because he knows that Tony is going to be all over this one. 

Clint pushes the now clean bowl back towards Sam and unsubtly eyes the oven. “It’s fantastic. I have a few more ideas, because when Steve and James get out, Tony’s going to have even more time on his hands.”

“You know when that’s happening?” Sam questions, like he doesn’t already know. He asks just as often as the others. He’d kept his promise, too. There’s a calendar up beside their cryo tanks, but he hasn’t marked off the days in a while. He’s been preoccupied. He knows that Tony’s had no breakthroughs, though. But something feels like it’s shifting, like they’re getting a little closer every day. 

Clint narrows his eyes, clearly checking the timer on the oven, and pulls an arrow out of his quiver, bringing the arrow head up to eye level and studying it. “Tasha mentioned something about bringing some new dude in to have a look at the situation. Says she overheard Tony and Bruce talking about it on the phone.”

“Did she bug their phones again?” Sam cackles, stepping in front of Clint’s eyeline to the oven. 

Clint apparently has a bow on him at all times, because he’s notching the arrow. “Probably,” he says distractedly. Then he aims and lets the arrow fly. 

The arrowhead explodes right above Sam’s head, and extremely realistic plastic flowers rain down over Sam, settling on his head and shoulders. Sam lets his racing heart slow, and scowls. Clint’s grinning so wide it’s concerning. The timer on the oven goes off, and then Clint lets out a triumphant noise, throwing his hands in the air.

Sam rolls his eyes and grabs his oven mitts, pulling the pans out and setting them on the stovetop. He sticks a knife in the middle of them to make sure they’re cooked before turning the oven off. “I’m amazed Tony’s letting someone come in and help with this,” he comments. 

“Yeah, well, I suppose this is a little more important than some of his other projects. They’re not coming out till he finds a solution, so he’s pulling out all the stops.” Clint moves off the stool and hovers over Sam’s shoulder to get a look at the loaves. 

Sam nods. “Do we know who it is?” he asks.

“Not yet. I think Tasha’s working on it, but she’s away at the moment. Won’t be back for another month.”

Sam nods, and sets the loaves on cooling racks before moving to do the dishes. Clint grabs a tea towel, casting a longing look at the loaves like that’s going to make them cool down faster. Sam snickers, and ignores the good-natured glare Clint sends him. 

“Y’know, I genuinely think Tony misses Steve,” Clint says. 

Sam frowns, handing him a washed bowl. “Has he been visiting them more than usual?”

“Yeah, and he’s been sleeping less. He’s getting worried, I think. Mentioned something about the world needing a Captain America.” Clint’s looking at him weird now, like he knows something Sam doesn’t. 

Sam presses his lips together. “Do you think we need to distract him for a while, get his mind off work?”

“Who, Cap?” Clint looks confused for all of two seconds before rolling his eyes at himself. “Oh, Tony, yeah. I’ve got a few more flower arrows left, and I know his air vents like the back of my hand by now. Let’s give him a heart attack.”

“Not what I meant. Also, didn’t you just get lost trying to get there?” 

Clint gets a knife out, cuts a few pieces of banana loaf and puts them on a plate. He ignores Sam’s comment. “We can give him some of your loaf, then. He loves your baking.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Everyone loves my baking.”

“That is the truest thing. You’re a very truthful man, Sam Wilson. One could say... _ Patriotically  _ truthful.” Clint’s grinning, and the expression makes Sam nervous for some reason. 

“That...makes no sense. Let’s go,” he says, diverting the conversation, and walks out of the apartment. 

Clint follows, already eating his second piece of banana loaf. 

*

Natasha - Twenty One Months After 

She’s covered in sweat and grit and blood, her heart pounding too loud in her ears for her to properly focus on the footsteps she’s following. She pumps her arms faster, and sees her opening. Her body is coiled like a spring when she leaps up, catching herself on the windowsill. She hauls herself into the room, and keeps running. She’s out of ammo, but when has that ever stopped her? She ducks around the corner, finds herself in a hallway, and presses her back flat against the wall. 

If she wasn’t straining to notice, she wouldn’t have heard the crunch of boots on the concrete ground. She throws herself forward, agile and unstoppable, and wraps herself around the target, thighs cutting off his air. They go down together. She takes the gun from his grip and presses it to his forehead. His eyes are wild, clearly not expecting this, and she smirks. 

She pulls off the Nano Mask she’s wearing, and her wig follows quickly. She can see the moment he realises the  _ predicament  _ he’s gotten himself into. She relaxes her grip just a bit, because the mission isn’t to kill, simply to apprehend. She sighs, and pistol-whips him, sending him into dream land. She stands, and makes quick work of securing him before calling in the extraction team. 

The ride back to the Tower is long and uncomfortable, dirt and sweat sticking to her. They don’t know she’s coming back -  _ she  _ didn’t even know when she’d be back this time - so she takes advantage and gets clean without them knowing she’s there. Them. Her family? Who knows. They’re the closest thing she’s got. 

She finds Clint first, and consequently finds Sam. They’re in the shooting range, laughing, gasping for breath, bending over themselves and squeezing their eyes shut. She allows a small twitch to her lips, warmth spreading throughout her chest at being  _ home.  _ Because that’s what this is. 

She knocks on the wall and raises an eyebrow at them. She cocks a hip, grinning at the flush that blooms across Clint’s cheeks, and stalks forward. “Hey boys,” she greets them.

“Tasha!” Clint exclaims. He does a little jump in the air, hands going for an arrow. 

She raises an eyebrow, and watches patiently as he knocks the arrow and grins. He lets it fly, and honestly, she’s  _ likes  _ this arrow. It’s engulfed in flames within seconds, and when it buries itself in the target - a perfect bullseye, obviously - the target falls to the ground, burning to a crisp. 

“Okay,  _ that’s  _ what I call a good use of Tony Stark,” she says.

Clint pumps his fist in the air, letting out a triumphant crow, and Sam laughs. “It took Tony a day to make them,” he says.

Natasha grins. “Of course it did. How’s he doing with his other project?” she asks. 

Unexpectedly, both Sam and Clint’s eyes light up. “He contacted him,” Clint gets out, slapping a hand over Sam’s mouth. 

Sam glares at him, but nods in confirmation. Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Good. It shouldn’t take them too long now. Did he show you the other  _ other  _ project, Sam?” she questions, because she’s a shit-stirrer, and she loves it. 

Clint cackles, while Sam just looks confused. “I’m sure there’s a bunch of other projects, but which one are we talking about?” he asks. 

“Oh, you’ll see,” Natasha replies, and walks out of the shooting range, the grin sliding off her face. She’s still warm inside, though, and lighter than she’s been than in the weeks she was out . 

It seems like she’s the only one still working full-time at the moment. Everyone else can be found lounging around the Tower or in their respective homes more often than not , and it makes her happy, surprisingly. None of her idiots are in the line of fire constantly, just dealing with a few things here and there. Clint had come on a mission last year with her, and she knows he’s been on a few more, even took Sam with him once. Other than that, they were home,doing normal people things. 

Everyone seems lighter, even with the constant looming thought of _when are they going to be woken up._

She visits Steve and Yasha next. Tony’s not in his workshop, amazingly, and all the Avengers have been cleared to go into the room the tanks are in, so she gets there no problem. 

The glass windows are frosted over with crackling ice. She stands stock-still in the room, eyes flickering between the two tanks. She can’t see their faces, but she knows they’re in there. She finds herself pacing when she can’t be still anymore, and eventually, she leaves. She knows there’s no point in visiting them, but she can’t help but think she should. 

Tony is back in his workshop when she comes out. He’s on his own and he looks exhausted, but excited. She comes up behind him, because she knows he hates it, and peers over his shoulder to look at the screen he’s pouring over. “Any closer?” she asks. 

He jumps, but this has happened enough times before that he doesn’t do much more than that. When he looks up, she just lifts one eyebrow and waits. He scowls and reaches for a cup of coffee. “I am, actually. Dr Strange and I have had an interesting conversation,” he replies. 

She nods, even though he’s turned back to his work. “How long do you think?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that in the past year and a half? So many. So, so many times. But now I have an actual answer, so you’re lucky, Red.” Natasha has to hold back her laughter at Tony’s indignation. 

“A year and nine months,” she corrects, just because Tony hates being corrected. 

He ignores her. “I’d say three months, tops. Strange has gotta see if he can do it, and I’ve got things to put in order. Like Winter’s legal status and all that jazz.” He doesn’t sound too happy about it, but Natasha knows he’ll do it anyway. 

If there’s one thing she knows about Tony, it’s that he has a big heart. “Get some sleep, Tony,” she reminds him, stepping back and heading out of the workshop. 

She hears him scoff as she leaves, but she ignores that. Three months. In three months, they’ll be back. She smiles to herself, and hopes she’ll be here when they wake up. Somehow, she’s sure she will be. 

  
As she walks along the corridor, back towards the training rooms, she can hear Clint yelling something and Sam’s loud, warm laugh. It’s good to be home.  


	22. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. So. This took me...months upon months to write. It took up time that should have been dedicated to schoolwork, and it is my baby. Thank you so much for letting me share my baby with you. Thank you to Eline and Ivan for helping me craft this story, to patch up the holes and sand down the rough edges. It wouldn't be as it is without you. 
> 
> So, this is it. The final installment! Enjoy :)

There’s this state of in-between, a lingering awareness just before you float off into a deep sleep, where your mind is still connected to reality. It’s where you end up after you stumble past the barriers of your mind, still holding onto the strands that tie you to your body, but you drift, up and up. You stretch for peacefulness, something you’re not too sure you’ll ever be able to grasp, but you go for it anyway. You’re disconnected, but there’s still a single string that holds you down, low enough that you can’t quite wrap your fingers around it. You try and try and try, and when you want it bad enough, the string finally snaps. 

You grasp it, and then you fly backwards, a scorching ball of light and fire and soul, colliding with the surface of the ocean. Then you sink, into wading peacefulness. There’s a hovering darkness; you can see it out of the corner of your eyes. It’s ready to take you in its arms and pull you down into a restful, deep sleep. But you linger, hesitant, holding onto that little bit of awareness. You drift in the water, letting it warm you. This, here, is the in-between. 

This, here, is where they drift until they are called back to the surface.

*

He wakes up before the door opens. It hurts, a little bit, and his head is swimming. There’s warm air swirling around him, and he thinks his limbs should hurt, but they don’t. It feels like no time has passed at all, but at the same time...He feels heavy, like he’s woken up from a long sleep. Panic prickles at him as he wonders how many days, weeks, years he’s lost this time. He takes a deep, deep breath, and when he blows it out, he opens his eyes. 

He stares at the glass of the cryo chamber, but he can’t see through it. It’s fogged over, and that makes him wary, but then he hears the sound of the door beginning to open. He turns his head, tenses against the straps, but then he forces himself to relax as the door slides open. The last of the cold leaves his bones, and the residual weakness left over from sleepiness goes with it. His head clears and he returns to the world.

He stares out at those standing in the room; they look excited, like they’ve been waiting for far too long. Steve feels a prickling discomfort in his stomach. How much time did he lose? Tony steps into his line of vision then, and Steve snaps back to focus, swallowing down the building panic. He searches Tony’s face as he undoes the straps. “Don’t move just yet, Cap. Take your time,” he suggests. His voice sounds weird, like he’s holding something back. 

Steve opens his mouth to talk, but then he shuts it again. He feels...Odd. He shifts his attention to the room in front of him, observes his friends. They’re in a different room, and there are beds, and some person he’s never seen before. Steve swallows, and slowly leans forward, hands gripping at the sides of the chamber as his body works itself back up to being able to move again. He aches all over, but that’s not important. 

He steps out of the tank, legs shaking as one hand grips the side of the tank for support, and his gaze burns into the side of Bucky’s cryo chamber. Steve grits his teeth and watches Tony tap at a computer screen. The door on Bucky’s chamber slides open. Steve’s heart is beating extremely fast, and he tries to focus on removing all the wires and patches stuck to him. His eyes continuously flick from the task to Bucky’s chamber and back again as he waits for Bucky to step out. 

The room is very silent - it’s just Sam, Natasha, Clint and the man he doesn’t know. Steve can almost feel the air crackling with things unsaid. But then Tony’s leaning into Bucky’s chamber and undoing the straps, and Steve holds his breath. 

“Steve?” comes from inside the tank. 

Steve hurries forward, knees clicking as they move, and he nearly falls over. He catches himself, though, and - stares at Bucky as he holds himself up with on chamber. “Buck,” he whispers, and Bucky’s breathing heavily, probably fighting through some lingering memories. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to calm himself down. Then he steps out of the chamber and wraps his arms around Steve. Steve huffs out a laugh and hugs him back, burying his face into Bucky’s neck. “Morning, Buck,” Steve says, unable to keep the happiness out of his voice.

Bucky’s shaking a little, but he laughs too before pulling back. He looks around at the people in the room, smiling. “How long?” he asks when he pinpoints Tony.

Steve looks up, eyes landing on Tony as they both wait for the answer. “Two years,” Tony answers, but he doesn’t look grim about it, doesn’t look like anything bad happened. 

It still has Steve reeling, knowing that two years have gone by without him existing in them. He’s missed so much, again. “You can recap on what’s happened soon, but I thought you’d like to hear the more important news first.” Steve snaps back into focus, straightening up and pressing himself into Bucky’s side a bit more than is necessary. 

Neither Steve or Bucky talk, simply waiting for Tony to go on. “I figured it out,” Tony says, spreading his hands out like he’s giving them a gift, palms up and fingers splayed. 

Steve’s stomach clenches in excitement, and he turns his head to look at Bucky, who seems at peace. He’s smiling, eyes far away, but he’s warm and he’s here and he looks  _ happy.  _ Steve swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, and he has to physically force himself to turn and look at Tony again, who’s looking between them with tired, but happy eyes. Steve’s about to explode with happiness, himself. It’s swirling through his stomach, making him dizzy, and he reaches out to tangle his fingers with Bucky’s. It grounds him, and he huffs out a happy noise. 

Bucky looks at him and crinkle-eyes, giving him an all-tooth grin. He turns back to Tony, and Steve watches him talk. “How will you do it?” Bucky’s voice is rough, having not been used in two years, but softer than Steve’s heard in...Awhile.

Tony points at the man standing beside Natasha. “This is Dr Strange. I spent ages trying to figure out how to get rid of the commands, but then I had this genius idea - as always - and started thinking about  _ blocking  _ the commands. Rendering them useless. And when I couldn’t figure out a way to do it without severely damaging the rest of Winter’s brain, I remembered this guy existed!” he explains, then turns back to Steve and Bucky, grinning. 

“I don’t get it,” Bucky croaks. 

Tony sighs, and goes to speak, but then Dr Strange steps forward and gives them a smile. “Hello, Steven, James. I am Stephen Strange, and I have been asked by Anthony to help James block the commands that have been forced on him by Hydra,” he says, a strange tilt to his head. Tony scowls at him, but stays silent.  

Steve watches him for a moment, skin prickling with uncertainty. Dr Strange holds himself tall, but he doesn’t seem threatening. Steve can see Bucky watching him as well. At their silence, the man continues talking. “One of my abilities is telepathy. I believe it will be easy enough to enter James’ mind and block the commands from ever being used again.”

And. Well. Steve looks over at Bucky, and finds him already waiting for his attention. Steve raises an eyebrow, and Bucky nods at him. And maybe they’ll have trouble dealing with the fact that someone’s going to be messing with Bucky’s head, but. The air feels lighter than it has in years, and there are no frown lines in between Bucky’s eyebrows. 

Things, for once, seem to be looking up, and up, and up.  

*

_ Years later  _

It’s not smooth sailing. Days go by that Bucky doesn’t remember; his mind is far more damaged than anyone had expected, and he suffers from short-term memory loss. He has more flashbacks than he can count, followed by _dreams_ about the flashbacks. He gets angry far too easily, and his mood switches back and forth so much it gives him whiplash. He sinks into silence some days, or doesn’t talk for a week. He spends days on end disassociating, forgets who he is completely sometimes. 

But Steve is always there. Sometimes he’s close, brushing Bucky’s hair back from his face as he shakes. Other times he’s sitting in the lounge while Bucky sleeps the day away in his room, simply there as a constant, comforting presence. 

Steve has his days too, becoming volatile and lashing out. Bucky’s usually there to calm him down, or leaves him alone to cool off. Steve sinks in and out of depression, constantly denying that he has anything bad going on, and tries to be there for Bucky, but never for himself. It crushes him eventually, and everyone - Bucky, Sam, Natasha, Clint, Bruce and even Tony - is there to sit him down and tell him to face the music. 

Both of them finally get professional help. And they get better, slowly. They both know they won’t ever really heal from what they’ve been through, but they know how to carry it, now. They relearn each other, too, becoming closer than before, free now that there’s nothing standing between them. Months pass. Years pass. They learn how to be happy, and they heal together, till days go past where there are no incidents. 

And finally,  _ finally _ , they both feel the crushing weight lift off their shoulders, bit by painful bit. And when they know they’re safe - they have each other, and they have their friends - they decide to go on a very well-earned holiday. They’re under no obligation to stay now that Sam is taking over the mantle of Captain America. 

So they pack up, and they leave. 

They go and go and go, travelling and seeing and learning and healing for months on end. They’re not called in for jobs, they’re hardly recognised; Bucky finishes what Nat was teaching Steve: how to blend in. How to fit in, how to slide by unnoticed. He becomes extremely good at it in no time. So they live, they keep going, for the better part of two years. 

They never discuss stopping, it just happens. They’re in Romania, of all places, when they seem to take simultaneous deep breaths and just. Stop. 

They’re in a motel room they’ve been renting for a couple of nights, laying on the bed in silence, when Bucky speaks up. He brushes a thumb over the top of Steve’s hand, their fingers intertwined, and rolls onto his stomach. “When are we going back, Stevie?” he murmurs, voice soft and low. There is no rush, there is no panic. Not here. 

Steve takes a moment to open his eye and they come to rest on Bucky’s peaceful face. He’s shaved again, skin smooth without a hint of shadow. His eyes are bare of shadows and bags of exhaustion. His hair - longer now, but soft and glossy - is pulled back into a ponytail. He smiles, and it reaches his eyes. Steve takes his time to reply, because they have that now. Time. 

“When we want to, I suppose. We’re welcome back whenever,” he replies, reaching over with his free hand to brush a stray strand of hair out of Bucky’s face. 

Bucky’s face grows all soft as he leans into the touch, eyes drifting shut. He stays that way, cheek cupped in Steve’s hand, while he talks. “I think I wanna go home now.” It sends butterflies into a flurry in Steve’s stomach. 

“Yeah, me too,” he hums, and  gently pulls Bucky to him, wrapping his arms around him. 

  
They lay like that, Buckys head rested on Steve’s chest, until they’re ready to move again. They call Tony, who sounds exuberant over the phone. It warms their hearts, knowing they’ll have to put up with him again soon. They book plane tickets for the next morning. Dusk settles over the city like a breath of fresh air, slowing rushed footsteps heading home for the day. Slowly, the city drifts into silence, and it sleeps. Lights are dimmed, turned off, and there is nothing but the chill of the night and two young-faced old men holding hands on a park bench. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at [buckyskillingme!](http://buckyskillingme.tumblr.com)


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